


Healing Up

by OnlyOneWoman



Series: Unleash Me From My Darkness [4]
Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: (eventually I hope!), Abusive Relationships, Age Regression/De-Aging, Alternate Universe, Angst, Anxiety, Anxiety Disorder, BDSM, Baking, Boys in Skirts, Canon Divergent Characters, Character Development, Cooking, Coping, Cuddling & Snuggling, Daddy Kink, Dark Past, Developing Relationship, Dom/sub, Dom/sub marriage, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Discipline, Domestic Fluff, Domesticity, Dorks in Love, Embroidery, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Family, Figging, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Gaelic Language, Gardens & Gardening, Healing, Home, Hospitalization, Humiliation kink, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Misogyny, Just Tully being an awesome homemaker, Knitting, Loss of Parent(s), Love, M/M, Malignant stress, Marriage, Married Life, Mental Health Issues, Minor Characters Are Not Very Important, Nightmares, Non-Canon Relationship, Non-Canon all over the fucking place, Not Canon Compliant, Obedience Kink, PAST abusive relationships!, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, Polyamory, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Ron Tully is a homemaker, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Service Dogs, So Married, Spanking, Their Love Is So, Therapy, This is where canon goes to die, Threesome - M/M/M, Trauma, True Love, Tully's first name is Ronea - fight me, at all, chosen family, dominant!Chibs, it's all consensual, long healing process, submissive!Juice, versatile!Tully
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-01-11 17:02:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 86
Words: 92,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18428348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnlyOneWoman/pseuds/OnlyOneWoman
Summary: Yeah, of corpse I start posting part 4 today already... The timeline that follows is that it's been a couple of weeks since "Shamrock Equation" ended and Juice is finally heading back home. Healing will still be difficult, but it's coming.Remember:1. You probably wont understand this unless you've read part 1-32. It's AU and non-canon, meaning there is no Samcro, Ron Tully is neither a nazi nor a rapist and just about everything about SoA except for three characters, some of their show features and looks is changed.3. I LOVE to make completely non-canon shit in fanfics. In fact, it's very rare for me to keep close to canon, and if you don't like the idea of using these characters outside canon stuff, you're hereby warned.4. Comments that complaint about lacking canon content, or me turning Tully into a very non-nazi lover, will receive politely yet a bit annoyed answers.5. Always read the tags. ALWAYS. Also: not all tags will be added right away, but added as the story goes on.Also, I don't really plan my stories, but it's a given that any smut including Juice will take time to come back.Have fun, crack shippers!





	1. Juice

Mr. Bunny shook his head, almost like a warning, and he turned his cuddly face into Juice’s chest, whining softly.  
  
_“I’m scared… I’m sc-scared, Juice…”_  
  
So was Juice, but Mr. Bunny was smaller and couldn’t even walk on his own. He was shivering and Juice swallowed.  
  
“D-don’t wo-worry, Mr. B-bunny…”  
_”But it’s n-not for b-bunnies…”_  
  
The scared animal in his arms was right. Bunnies lived outside, or in one of those large cages, right? This wasn’t outside and definitely not a cage. Juice stayed still, shushing his tiny friend as he looked around. Mr. Bunny was too scared to look so it would probably be better for him if Juice just told him. His tiny legs were tired too, even if he was carried, so Juice slowly walked over to a small stool and sat down.  
  
_“Don’t m-make me l-look, Juice…”_  
_”I wont.”_  
  
It was easier to answer Mr. Bunny without opening his mouth. He had such a good hearing, after all. Juice shushed him.  
  
_”You don’t have to look, Mr. Bunny. Juice will describe it to you.”_  
  
He didn’t stutter when he spoke to Mr. Bunny like this. On the inside. And the risk of people hearing was non-existant, but sometimes the skittish animal forgot that. Juice kissed the soft head.  
  
_“It’s green, Mr. Bunny. Like grass.”_  
 _”E-everything?”_  
 _”No. The walls… they’re like moss, I think. But not as dark… More like watercolors.”_  
 _”Moss is good, right? S-soft f-for the feet.”_  
  
Bunnies had soft pads under their feet and Mr. Bunny had been forgotten in some cold, dark place with far too hard floor for 26 years, not feeling or even seeing grass. The little animal shivered.  
  
_“Moss a-and… what else, J-juice?”_  
  
Juice’s eyes fell on the bed.  
  
_”There’s a bed. A big one… And it has one of those bed covers in squares, like Daddy’s and Papi’s.”_  
_“I-is it the s-same?”_  
_”No, this is… it’s in green, white and brown and blue. And there are cushions too, white…”_  
 _“L-like the f-forest?”_  
 _”Forests are green, Mr. Bunny.”_  
 _”N-not the t-tree trunks, or the b-bush anemones.”_  
 _“Guess you’re right… Look, there’s a sky in the ceiling…”_  
 _“S-sky? I-indoors?”_  
 _”Uh-huh.”_  
 _”Y-you’re pulling m-my leg now, Juice.”_  
  
Mr. Bunny’s stutter seemed to get better when he was curious. Juice petted him slowly, remembering what Papi, Daddy and Dr. Huang had said about scared little bunnies and how teasing or ridiculing them when they were scared, was wrong. He was, after all, very small, and it was Juice’s responsibility to protect him. Papi and Daddy did too, of course, but Mr. Bunny didn’t really _know_ them and he’d always been suspicious about strangers.  
  
Juice scratched his back and looked at the ceiling.  
  
_“It’s like a sky, the colour._ _And… and there are those stars…”_  
_“Stars? Inside? Now you’re j-just trying to annoy me!”_  
 _”S’not real stars, silly. It’s those plastic luminary things… They’ll shine in the dark.”_  
_“Stars are supposed to sh-shine in the dark.”_  
  
Mr. Bunny sounded a little annoyed now and Juice smiled a little, brushing his lips onto his head.  
  
_“If you don’t believe me, maybe you should take a look for yourself. Just a quick peek?”  
“I d-don’t know, Juice…”  
“S’not dangerous, I promise. And… and I think it’s made for bunnies too. Indoor bunnies…”  
“I’ve lived o-outside a-all my l-life.”  
”Not all…”  
”B-but I d-don’t wanna think b-bout that place anymore, Juice. Th-they h-h-had fire there…”  
“There’s no fire here, I promise.”  
“Wh-what bout the r-rest of the house?”  
“There’s the open fire downstairs, but…”  
“O-open f-f-fire?!”_  
  
Now Mr. Bunny started crying and Juice had to get down from the stool and fall back onto the wall where he could hug his friend between his legs and chest. Mr. Bunny was _terrified_ of fires and no wonder. Juice tried to wipe his little friend’s tears the best he could. There was an open fire in this house, but Mr. Bunny would never end up there. Not that he believed that right now, but Juice knew.  
  
Maybe not a hundred percent, but he couldn’t let Mr. Bunny know that.


	2. Filip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys are continuing their first night home as a family and it's not exactly smooth sailing.

“How’s he handling it?”  
”By having some kind o’ panic attack. He’s talking to Mr. Bunny, though.”  
”Poor angel…”  
  
Ronea’s concerned voice didn’t suit his visible relief for being home again and while they’d barely been back ten for half an hour and they all were tired and smelling of hospital, he was was already throwing longing looks on the dusty furniture, the oven, pots and pans and Filip chuckled.  
  
“What?”  
“Ye’re such a _housewife_ , lovey…”  
”Come again, Mr. Telford?”  
  
The warning scowl was even more cute and Filip pulled his husband in for a kiss on those soft lips.  
  
“My apologies, Mr. Telford-Tully. Homemaker, of course. My sexy lil’ homemaker husband.”  
  
Ronea huffed.  
  
”Yeah, I’m not feeling that sexy right now, Mr. Telford. And even if I did, I’m still smelling from rubbing alcohol, automatic coffee and old people.”  
“Then how about ye put some real coffee on an’ take a shower while yer ol’ man tend to our lil’ one.”  
“Sure?”  
“T’is an order, actually.”  
  
Filip knew his husband well and right now, before he’d had an hour or so to wind down, he was in need of almost as stern directions as Juice. He had bags under his eyes, his hair was a bit greasy and he definitely needed to get some fresh clothes on. Filip kissed his forehead and gave a little pat on his backside.  
  
“Coffee and shower, baby. Now.”  
”Yes, Filip.”  
  
Another little kiss and then his now a wee bit less stressed out husband padded over to the coffee brewer while Filip walked upstairs. In the last two weeks they’d tried to prepare Juice for coming home, and for the place at the outpatient facility the best they could, but it hadn’t been easy and he’d flat out refused to look at any picture of the room.  
  
That could be a sign of rejection, but it was impossible to tell. Juice had a way of initially denying himself any comfort or care until he felt safe enough to indulge, and that’s why Filip wasn’t the least surprised or disappointed when he found his lad curled up on the floor next to the changing pad, seemingly squeezing his stuffed bunny flat between his still sore tummy and slightly unsteady legs. Filip made sure to walk in loud enough not to startle him, but still slow and with soft steps. Juice still shivered but that was expected too and Filip sat down on the small couch.  
  
“Must feel strange to be home again, lil’ one. Daddy thinks so too.”  
  
Juice whined a little, a sound Filip had come to connect with “Mr. Bunny” telling he was scared and as heartbreaking as it was – more often than not giving Filip an actual lump in his throat – letting the stuffed bunny represent and express feelings Juice wasn’t comfortable to do as himself, had proved to be a very efficiant tool in his treatment.  
  
Via the cuddly toy, both in therapy and with Filip and Ronea, Juice had slowly started to express more feelings and by comforting and reassuring Mr. Bunny instead of Juice, the lad’s dangerously high level of shame had at least turned down a notch or two. His huge amount of empathy and the fact that he wasn’t punishing or rejecting the stuffed animal for expressing “shameful” or otherwise “dangerous” feelings, was a very good sign, age-regressive or not.  
  
Filip looked at the crouched figure in baggy clothes.  
  
”I bet Mr. Bunny is a bit worried, laddie. He’s never been here before an’ he doesn’t really like surprises, righ’?”  
“N-no. I-is scared.”  
”Aye, no wonder. I’d be scared too if I moved to an all new place. An’ hospitals are so different from a real home, aren’t they, kiddo?”  
“Y-yes, Daddy.”  
“Well… then we better do our best to make Mr. Bunny feel welcome, righ’ lil’ one?”  
“Y-yeah…”  
“Wha’s the best way o’ doing tha’? Should we by a truckload o’ carrots?”  
  
There was the tiniest little giggle and then Juice whined again, clutching his tummy.  
  
“H-hurt, Daddy…”  
“Then let Daddy hold his hand on it, Juicy. Daddy is an expert in belly rubs.”  
“M-mr. Bunny h-hurts too…”  
”Daddy will rub his belly too, lil’ one. C’mere, Juicyboy.”


	3. Ronea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Filip loves to indulge his husband, but he's still in charge and when he gives an order, it's supposed to be obeyed. Ronea should know that by now...

He felt guilty. Sure, he wasn’t just a homemaker, but a homemaking _nerd_ , and he’d missed his kitchen, his laundry room and greenhouse something terribly, but it wasn’t like he’d been gone for years, just several weeks – and for good and serious reasons. It wasn’t normal, right? Going through every cupboard, shelf and drawer like some Martha Stewart slash Gollum maniac. Ronea looked at the pie form, suddenly smiling.  
  
“My _preciousss…_ ”  
  
He chuckled now, at how insanely stupid it sounded, but he really couldn’t help himself and when he got the image of Gollum dressed up in one of those tasteless Martha Stewart apron with cupcake pattern and a chef’s hat, circling around a pile of kitchen tools and chocolate muffins, Ronea bursted out laughing, tears in his eyes, breathless and all.   
  
“Wha’s going on here?”  
  
Ronea looked up and saw his husband, who was carrying Juice in the sling again, and another fit of uncontrollable laughter sent Ronea leaning over the countertop for support. Filip looked amused and Juice a little bewildered with his pacifier in his mouth and Mr. Bunny in his hands. Ronea wavered his hands in front of his face, trying to fan himself calm.  
  
“Jesus… I’m… God, I’m just…”  
“I think Papi’s a bit tired, Juicy.”  
”W-what’s so f-funny, Pa-papi?”  
  
The image of Gollum crawling around the kitchen in the cupcake apron, now with a spatula wavering to protect his _precious_ pastries, absolutely didn’t help Ronea to calm down, let alone explain what he was laughing at, and his husband just shook his head and rolled his eyes.  
  
“Well, not tha’ I wannae interrupt whatever it is tha’ makes my husband happy, but I distinctly recall something I said about coffee an’ a proper shower, lovey…”  
“God, I’m sorry… I’m… Jesus, I’m on my way, Filip.”  
  
He was still laughing, couldn’t help himself and he quickly prepared the coffee without spilling too much on the floor. When he left the kitchen, Filip gave his backside a slightly firmer slap than the earlier one, but he was still smiling and Ronea blushed.   
  
“I’m sorry, Filip.”  
”Jus’ take the shower, baby.”  
”Yes, sir.”  
  
Smiles and blushes aside, an order was still an order and Ronea hurried away to the bathroom. Filip shouldn’t even need to tell him twice, let alone get a mouthy response even if it wasn’t intentionally rude. The second slap hadn’t hurt at all, but Ronea instantly felt the difference between that and the first little pat. The first one said “silly darlin’, get going” and the second “I gave ye an order an’ ye should’ve been on yer way already instead o’ getting mouthy”. And sure, Ronea loved his kitchen, but in no way as much as he loved to obey his strict husband.  
  
When he came upstairs to the bedroom, he found clothes and items on the bed along with a note.   
  
_Would you please wear this tonight for me, husband?_  
  
Ronea blushed again. Filip very, very rarely suggested outfits for him, but on occasion his Scottish man got a craving for one particular garment or the other and for the most part, Ronea would happily oblige, since he was asked so politely. It wasn’t an order though. Filip was very clear on that: no one, not him nor anyone else, had any right to rule over Ronea’s wardrobe or looks. Period.  
  
Ronea peeled his old clothes off, tossed them in the hamper and went to the bathroom. A _proper_ shower, Filip had said, meaning Ronea could take his sweet time shaving, grooming and scrubbing for a while. The order helped with the guilt, always did, and out of nowhere, Ronea started sobbing under the water, realising this wasn’t about his husband wanting him more presentable, but for him to get a little alone time and take care of himself.  
  
Dutifully, Ronea went through his usual grooming routine while still crying a bit, more out of weariness and relief than anything else. When he was finished, he dried off, moisturized and carefully put the pink, soft chastity device on. It was a reminder of his place as well as sign of care, both a chastisement and not. The silky panties, stockings, garter and strap tank came next and Ronea felt a lot calmer already.   
  
Filip had chosen a casual, dark grey skirt with big pockets and a black, very soft wollen shortsleeve that left the shoulders almost bare. It wasn’t dressing up, nor feminisation, really. Neither was it a putting in place thing. Ronea knew his place and loved it, but after all these weeks with their usual routines blown to pieces, it took time to resettle and his increadible husband not only knew that, but helped him to get there. A spanking would be even better, but there was still time for that – when his husband deemed it suitable. Right now, they both had a baby boy to take care of.


	4. Juice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes there is just no arms like Daddy's arms.

Usually, he prefered the sling with Papi, but right now, Daddy was the one and only. They were sitting in the high, comfy rocking chair that allowed Juice’s legs to rest freely onto the sides while still being cuddled up in the sling on Daddy’s chest. Mr. Bunny too, of course, and the warm, cozy blanket made it even better.   
  
Daddy was rocking him softly and stroked Juice’s back.   
  
“Such a good lad… It’ll take some time to wind down and get used to be home, lil’ one, but don’ worry… Daddy an’ Papi have it all planned out for ye. Getting ye some more time to jus’ be _little_ Juice, like Dr. Huang said, aye?”  
  
Juice just nodded, sucking a little more instensely on the soother and Daddy kissed his neck.  
  
“I know tha’ big Juice might be worried, but this is _lil’ Juice’s_ time to be taken care o’, alright? One step at the time, laddie, jus’ trust Daddy.”  
  
He did. Right now, when he felt _little_ , he trusted Daddy to the moon and back. Big Juice didn’t. He didn’t trust anyone, so it was good that Daddy was in charge. The large, warm hands were so comforting and Juice almost arched into them. Daddy smiled a little, he could feel it on his neck.  
  
“There will be a very strict schedule, lil’ one, but it’s for yer own good. Daddy will do wha’s best for ye, just as I do wha’s best for Papi, aye?”  
”Yes, Daddy.”  
  
It was a little difficult to answer with the pacifier, but it was too soothing to take it out and Daddy didn’t disapprove.  
  
“When we’re done with the schedule for tonight an’ ye’re asleep, Daddy will take care o’ Papi for a lil’ while, darlin’, before we join ye. Okay?”  
“Kay, Daddy.”  
”An’ ye’ll be sleeping in our bed for a long time, Juicyboy. Sleeping on yer own is not in question until ye’re fit for it, no matter how long tha’ takes.”  
  
He got another kiss on his head.  
  
“Oh, an’ when I say very strict schedule, I don’ mean tha’ in a harsh or demanding way, lil’ one. It jus’ means tha’ we’re gonnae be good lads, daddies an’ papis, following the rehabilitation plan as properly as we can, alright?”  
“Wh-what if Juice forgets…?”  
“Tha’s wha’ Daddy and Papi are for, darlin’. Ye don’ _have_ to remember or monitor the schedule at all, lil’ one, in fact, ye’re supposed to _not_ worry about tha’ for quite a while yet. Daddy an’ Papi will be yer watch, yer schedule an’ yer planner now, an’ we’ll only slowly start to involve ye more, when the clinic clears ye, one step at the time.”  
“One step a-at the time, Daddy…”  
“Tha’s righ’, sweet lad. I love ye so much, Juicy, as does Papi, an’ we’re so glad ye’re back home with us again. We’re so proud o’ ye, lil’ fighter…”  
  
Daddy had changed since the hospital, in a good way. It was hard to find words for it, but it had something to do with calm, which was weird since Daddy already was a very calm man. Usually, changes, especially with people, sent Juice’s anxiety through the roof, but it didn’t really feel like _that_ kind of change. Daddy was still Daddy, strict and firm, and he had final say in everything in this house – well, save for Papi’s kitchen or things that were out of his knowledge area, but he still ran the show.  
  
Juice sucked on the pacifier and felt the calm more or less bodily transfer from Daddy to himself. It came from Daddy’s arms around his back and the snug feeling from the sling, from his chest and the steady heartbeats onto Juice’s, the calm breaths onto his neck, the soft voice speaking those reassuring words… And Mr. Bunny had stopped shivering.


	5. Filip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Ronea is the one who gets disciplined in the marriage if he disobeys or is disrespectful, it's actually always more serious when Filip fails to live up to HIS vows. And to give his husband a scare, is among those failures.

“I’m sorry, Filip, I don’t know what I was thinking.”  
  
Sometimes his husband’s eagerness to obey and the distress he displayed when he failed to do so immediately, made Filip feel equally worried and proud. “Failed” obedience and unexpected emotional reactions was a very touchy subject for Ronea since he had a tendency to feel so incredibly guilty and insecure from them. That fear those thankfully rare moments showed, wasn’t healthy at all. It was worrying.  
  
On the other hand, which was the tricky part, was that Ronea’s distress nowadays didn’t show in him shutting down or getting hostile out of fear. Instead, this truly amazing man would instantly seek forgiveness and comfort the moment he realised he’d somehow stepped out of line. That amount of trust, not to mention mental strenght, never failed to make Filip all but bursting with pride over his husband. And right now, as he was still fresh from the shower and dressed in his skirt and wollen top, warm and hair a little damp, he looked so bloody fragile.  
  
Filip reached his hand out, but Ronea didn’t take it, still looking very distressed. They’d put Juice to bed together and he was firmly snoozing with Mr. Bunny, so he probably hadn’t caught up his Papi’s distress, which was good. His Papi, on the other hand, carried a lot of it, completely unnecessarily. Filip’s knees were cracking a bit when he sank down in front of his scared, tense husband.  
  
“Ronea, darlin’, I dinnae mean to upset ye earlier, but I clearly did an’ I’m truly sorry for tha’.”  
“I was the one who didn’t listen. I was disrespectful, Filip.”  
“Oh, lovey…”  
  
Filip held his hands up now, not taking Ronea’s, but just nudging them, fingers brushing lightly until Ronea leaned in and let Filip hold them.  
  
“Darlin’, I _scared_ ye an’ tha’s me breaking one o’ _my_ most important rules in this marriage. I wasn’t thinking at how I spoke to ye, tha’ wha’ I intended to be a wee bit playful came across as me being displeased with ye.”  
“But… you were and you had every right to be.”  
“No, lovey, I wasn’t displeased, only’ a wee bit annoyed but mostly, if I’m honest, jus’ amused an’ it worries me tha’ I failed to show tha’. So aye, ye may not have known wha’ ye were thinking, but neither did I, an’ is tha’ something we discipline in this house?”  
  
Ronea sighed and shook his head, slowly curling his fingers a little tighter around Filip’s hands.  
  
”No, we don’t.”  
  
Filip looked up now, relieved to see at least one layer of worry peeled off from his husband’s beautiful face. He wasn’t smiling, but his eyes were clearer and more focused now, not avoiding Filip’s gaze at all. Filip kissed his knuckles, which made him blush and then huff a little, and Filip looked serious.  
  
“I’m sorry tha’ I scared ye, lovey. Ye forgive me, _piseag_?*”  
  
Ronea’s sweet smile broke out from the old endearment.  
  
“Of course, my _fathach_.** Now, for the love of God, stand up and give me a kiss. It drives me bugfuck when you kneel like this.”  
  
Filip didn’t need to be asked twice and rose to take his man in his arms, kissing him slowly. When they broke the kiss, the normal, calm and trusting gaze was back in Ronea’s eyes and Filip smiled.  
  
“God, I love it when ye’re bossy in Gaelic. Especially in this outfit…”  
“Your girly little husband…”  
“S’nothing girly about ye, baby, but if it was, I’d love tha’ too.”  
  
Ronea gave him a wicked little smile.  
  
“Should I be worried that my big, bad biker bear will develop a taste for tits and pussy?”  
“Tits? Not a chance. Pussy… well, if it’s _yers_ …”  
“Oh right, your _little_ husbands _male_ pussy…”  
  
Now _this_ was teasing and the kind that wasn’t disrespectful. Ronea was bloody adorable like this, fluttering eyelashes, messy hair and that simple grey skirt reaching just below his knees… He was biting his lip now, but Filip caught a slightly questioning look in his eyes.  
  
“Wha’s worrying ye, Ronea? I can see ye’re not calm yet.”  
  
Ronea blushed.  
  
“Well… I was wondering if you’d spank me, Filip?”  
“Darlin’, ye know I wont, since ye dinnae break a rule.”  
“But I need it. I… Please, Filip, it’s been such a long time since we…”  
  
His husband now came closer, leaning onto his shoulder.  
  
“I know I’ve not broken a rule, baby, well at least not to deserve a punishment, so I’m not asking you to _correct_ me, Filip.”  
  
Oh. _Of course_. Filip internally kicked himself up the backside for missing such an obvious thing and he felt himself relax too, realising only now that he’d been tense as well and he slipped his hands down his husbands gorgeous arse, grabbing it outside the skirt and lifted him. Ronea chuckled as he swirled his legs around his waiste and Filip nuzzled his chest.  
  
“I’ll give ye wha’ ye need, Mr. Telford-Tully. Where to, ma’m?”  
“Don’t you _ma’m_ me, papa bear. And this _little_ husband is done making decisions for tonight, so you better not regret requesting me to wear this skirt, Mr. Telford. Now get moving, _sir._ ”  
“I thought ye were done making decisions.”  
“Filip…”  
“Alright, alright. Moving it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *kitty in Scottish Gaelic  
> **bear of a man in Scottish Gaelic


	6. Ronea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, some long husband time ;)

In all their years together, Ronea had yet to find something that compared to this. While confessing, being corrected, forgiven and then getting to cry for an unlimited time in his husband’s arms after he’d broken a rule was one hell of a emotional range, starting with distress and ending in complete relief, the _resettling_ spankings were quite different, especially if they’d been forced to compromise with their usual routine for some time.  
  
On the surface, it looked like a game, both of them smiling as Filip carried him from the kitchen to the livingroom, but they weren’t teasing or joking now. It wasn’t what they needed in this moment. All they needed was to be husbands in the sense of what _they_ put in that term, nothing more.  
  
The only exception, only intrusion in that privacy, was the baby monitor in case Juice needed them. Other than that, the world outside their marital intimacy was locked away. Doors and alarms set, phones on mute, no tasks or needs to interrupt the resettlement.   
  
This was a dominant, loving husband, who’d take care of his happily submissive homemaker and nothing more. It was everything and Ronea already shivered a little as Filip put him down on the floor, unconcerned of his cracking knees and for once, Ronea kept quiet, because this was his time to let go _completely._   
  
Filip put a pillow to support Ronea’s tall back, gave him a kiss on his temple and rose. Ronea didn’t speak, just smiled a little as he watched his husband do his thing. They’d not had the opportunity, nor the energy for this extensive amount of reestablishing their roles and Ronea got a glass of chilled Chablis wine in his hand before Filip got the open fire going and then went on to light two dozens of candles, finishing up by putting on some serene music on low volume and placing the baby monitor device on the coffee table.  
  
“Scoot out, baby.”  
  
Ronea obliged and Filip removed the pillow, placing himself behind him and pulled him close to rest against him. A gentle hand made him lean his head a bit further down and there was a hum in his hair. Ronea sighed and felt himself relax some more.  
  
“Tha’s it, _piseag*_ … Jus’ lean back, I’ve got ye… S’always hard to resettle, both of us anxious to get there, but no matter how much tha’s changed of late, _we’re_ still the same, lovey. The core of our marriage, the things tha’ make us _who we are_ when all the layers come off…  _Tha’s_ not changed, Ronea, an’ it never will.”  
  
Not wearing make-up had been a good idea, because of course Ronea started crying. He wasn’t sad, just breaking down a bit and Filip gently squeezed his hand.  
  
“I’m first of all _yers_ , lovey. Not tha’ I don’ love Juice jus’ as much, but ye’ve been my other half for twentyfour years, ever since we first got together, an’ I no longer know who I’d be without ye, nor do I ever wannae find out.”  
  
Fingers entangling, another squeeze, mutual this time.  
  
“I’ve missed this so much, lovey… These last weeks… I’ve felt like I’ve been running on empty, ‘cause when I cannae take care o’ ye the way ye need, the way _I_ need, I’m neglecting who we are, even if I don’ intend to. An’ I’m pretty sure ye’re feeling something akin to tha’ when our roles get too… disintegrated.”  
“I do… Not crying ‘cause I’m sad or… I’m just…”  
“A wee bit disoriented an’ quite a lot overwhelmed?”  
“Yes… It’s… _Please_ , husband, just… help me…?”  
“I will, darlin’.”  
  
He was removed from his husband’s arms to sit onto his knees and Ronea just let Filip do everything for him now. He had no strenght left to settle down in his natural role by himself at this point, only the ability to follow where his deepest urge lead him, guided by this man and this man only.   
  
Tears were dripping, slowly but in no way decreasing as the buttons on his skirt got opened and he was lowered, placed across the awaiting lap and the callous hands started to scoot the grey fabrics upwards. There was no hesitation, no mistaking in the touches. This wasn’t punishment, nor a game, but nothing short of complete submission and the feeling of it almost too intense.   
  
His chest was aching, ribs like a straitjacket around his lungs, his heart a clenched fist when the panties got pulled down halfway, the silk getting stuck from his painfully hard cock, which he’d been too tense to even notice until now and a sob loosened in his throat. A hand on the small of his back, not pressing down, just keeping him in place with a soothing rubbing until his hips sank down in the proper position, not by force but naturally, as was his urge.  
  
Despite the anticipation, his body wasn’t on track and reacted with a downright shake from the first blow.   
  
“Darlin’…?”  
“Please, continue! I, I can’t… not right _now_!”  
  
He couldn’t explain, he had no words in the right order, he was all feels and it was terrifying, would’ve been unbearable anywhere else but across his husband’s lap. His right hand was taken and placed backwards onto Filip’s leg.  
  
“Ye feel any kind o’ wrong hurt, in any way, ye’ll pat, grab or slap my leg, is tha’ clear, husband?”  
“Clear.”  
“An’ if I miss it or stop even a moment too late, I _order_ ye to punch my lights out. Ye hear me, husband?”  
“Loud and clear, sir.”  
“An’ I’m not sir now, ‘cause I’m not correcting ye. It’s _yes, Filip_.”  
  
Good Lord, _that voice…_ Ronea didn’t even care to muffle the moan as he answered through clenched teeth. _  
_  
“Yes, Filip. I hear you and I understand you, husband.”  
“Thank ye, love. Now… let me remind ye o’ yer place… an’ mine…”  
  
No more talking, no transgressions to confess, no play. And no tools. Just skin… The second blow wasn’t as hard as the first, or maybe the preparation soothed it, Ronea didn’t care. His husband was spanking him now and the increasing pain was spreading across his clenched bottom and the sensitive area on the top of his thighs. The tension came from somewhere far inside, a place in his knotted up muscles he’d not been able to feel for a while and the tight bundle of nerves was now relentlessly getting worked on by his husband’s firm hand.   
  
It hurt. It hurt so damn much and the pain was marvelous, ecstatic and completely consuming. The humiliation was barely there, pushed out by the feeling of pure submission and Ronea found himself floating already, not in the chaotic, drifting way, but slap by slap reaching a little closer to the stillness that was the safe haven of his strong husband.   
  
He wasn’t sure when the slaps stopped or how he’d even been able to form the words: _please, fuck me,_ only that he needed this, needed all of this so badly any other thought was disconnected now. He was sobbing in pure despair when Filip undressed and then removed the panties and Ronea’s damp top, leaving the skirt, chastity and stockings on. This part wasn’t for slow and soft, that would fucking ruin him and Ronea cried out for more and _don’t-you-fucking-dare-slow-fucking-me-Mr. Telford-I-need-it-hard-dammit!_  
  
Some sub he was, practically barking out an order, but his husband was just as desperate now, hands sticky with spilled lube, dripping on Ronea’s chest and his sensitive buttocks buzzling as Filip entered almost too slow until he settled all the way in, filling him to the hilt. Then he pulled halfway out and slammed back hard.   
  
They should keep quiet, considering their sleeping boy upstairs, but this kind of fucking, with Filip Telford’s cock rammed up against his prostrate in _that_ devilicious angle, made discretion of any kind nearly impossible. The way Ronea moaned now, would put a pro porn actor to shame, and he was just as unable to keep it down, as Filip was willing to shut him up. He fucked him doggystyle, hands and knees turning to elbows and spread out thighs as Ronea desperately wanted to lower down, to be domintated, so fucking _owned_ in this moment, taking it deeper like the greedy sub he was.  
  
The chastity device was still on, his ignored cock throbbing againts it’s cage, head shiny from the swellining and glistening precum. Ronea full-one whined now, not forming any coherent words, but Filip knew. His husband _always_ knew.  
  
Ronea sobbed as Filip pulled out and turned him back into missionary position, thighs now pressed down over his abdomen, legs locked in those hands, bent against his shoulders and Filip entered him again, now picking up a fast, hard pace, animalistic, sloppy sounds of slapping, wet flesh and then grabbing the snug cage, undoing it with shaky hands and the pink device had barely come off, when Ronea choked a cry into his elbow and came.    
  
***  
  
“We woke up baby boy…?”  
“Not a chance, lovey. Sleeping like a rock.”  
“Thank God.”  
  
Ronea was resting on his side, damp from the wet towel now instead of sweat and cum, another glass of ice cold, dry Chablis in his hand and his ass – and face – blushing in just the right shade of pink. Filip had finished by eating him out, practically sucking his own cum off his hole and Ronea felt deliciously naughty as he looked at his now wine sipping husband.  
  
“So, Mr. Telford… Are you going to tell me?”  
“Tell ye wha’, lovey?”  
“The secret to how you manage to turn me from a miserable wreck to a literally completely fucked one and still look like you’ve never had an indecent thought in your life.”  
  
The burst of laughter had Filip cough up wine and he got tears in his eyes from it, just laughing so freely as if he’d never been stressed out even once, ever, and he caught Ronea in a hard kiss, still filled with poorly muted laughter.  
  
“Holy shite, I’m so happy ti’s ye an’ me, darlin’. Please, don’ ever change…”


	7. Juice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightmares suck ass, but maybe Juice is getting better at handling them, than he knows.
> 
> Oh, and the title "Healing Up", of course is a paraphrase for growing up. I meant to put that in the main summary, but I ran out of space.

“Shh, baby boy, shh… Papi’s here, don’t be afraid, angel…”  
  
At first, he’d not reckognized the room. The striped walls had looked so unfamiliar after weeks of white and steel, the sheets were different too and worst of all, Papi and Daddy weren’t there. But when he’d started crying, calling for them, there were fast footsteps and seconds later Papi had him in his arms, rocking and shushing him.  
  
“My poor, poor baby… You had a bad dream, my little love?”  
“Go-one…”  
“Oh, Papi and Daddy were downstairs, sweetheart, but we weren’t gone. We came as soon as we heard our baby boy calling for us.”  
  
It was so different from the hospital, Juice started to feel now as the nightmare melted away and he tugged at his onesie.  
  
“O-off…”  
“Ye too warm, kiddo?”  
“N-no, j-jus’… Want D-daddy a-a-and P-papi…”  
“You want some skin contact, baby boy?”  
“Uh-huh… M-mr. B-bunny w-wants t-too…”  
“Course he does, lil’ one. Lets get yer PJ’s off, alright?”  
  
Now, as his wet eyes started to get used to the dim light, Juice noticed Papi had only a skirt on and was a little damp on his chest. Not that it mattered, it was just unusual to see him like that after all the weeks at the hospital. Papi helped him out of the onesie and checked his diaper.  
  
“You’re wet, baby boy. Filip, love, will you please bring the changing mat and some soaped and unsoaped water in here?”  
“Of course, darlin’. Anything else?”  
“A bottle would be good, I think.”  
“On my way, lovey.”  
“Thank you. Shh, baby boy, it was just a bad dream. Everything’s gonna alright. Come, let Papi give his good baby boy a cuddle. Oh, there’s your pacifier as well. Here you go, sweetheart.”  
  
In the immediate aftermath of a panic attack or nightmare, Juice never felt any shame these days. Not like he used to. It had become natural to cling onto Papi – or Daddy – like a child, to seek comfort and take it without question or judgment when it was offered. And it was always offered. He was wet, shaky and miserable, but Papi rocked and cooed him and when Daddy came back with the water, Juice was happy to be lifted and put on the changing mat.  
  
Papi took the old diaper off and Daddy helped to keep Juice’s heavy legs up. It didn’t feel shameful anymore, to be changed and washed like a baby and Papi was so gentle. He finished off with baby oil and then proceeded to wash Juice’s sweaty body with water from another bowl. Juice shivered a little but it was so nice to get cooled off a bit and Daddy bent down to kiss his forehead and stroke tears from his cheeks.  
  
“Daddy’s here, lil’ one. No one’s gonnae hurt Daddy’s Juicyboy or Mr. Bunny, I promise.”  
  
The adult part of his brain knew Daddy couldn’t make that promise, but that part was very quiet, hardly noticable. It was all Little Juice now, who was small enough to get helped with his mess without shame, and that part believed Daddy was almighty. He would scare off all the bad guys, make the boogey man leave and everything would be alright, just like Papi said.  
  
Papi had now dried him off and Juice felt a lot better. Papi stroked his hair.  
  
“You wanna lay in Papi’s arms for a little while, sweetheart?”  
  
He nodded and Daddy lifted him while Papi sat down in bed, supported by some pillows and Daddy placed Juice in his arms.  
  
“I’ll make tha’ bottle, lovey.”  
“Thank you.”  
  
Daddy draped the blanket over them, gave them both a kiss and left. Papi rocked Juice and nuzzled his hair.  
  
“You remember the bad dream, Juicy? Can you tell Papi what it was about?”  
“Do-on’t know, P-papi. S-sorry.”  
“Shh, hey now, don’t be sorry for that, baby boy. Never apologies for things that aren’t your fault. Or at least we’re gonna try and not do that, even if it’s difficult sometimes, right?”  
“R-right, Papi.”  
  
Papi hummed, it was a soothing buzz on his head and the warmth of his body was relaxing.  
  
“No one wants to remember a bad dream, my little love. At least I’ve never heard of anyone who does. It’s awful, getting attacked in your sleep like that, Papi knows that all too well, Juicy. But then, when we wake up and we start to forget the details of the nightmare, little by little, and we can turn the lights on and land in the now… We’ll know it’s just a nightmare, baby boy, and that it has no real control over us.”  
“Y-you ha-had bad d-dreams, Papi?”  
“Oh, God, so many of them, baby boy… So many… It took time, but eventually they left.”  
“All of them?”  
“All of those who crippled me from inside, angel. Everyone has nightmares sometimes, even the happiest people on Earth, it’s one of the things that comes with the package of being a human, I’m afraid. But if we don’t judge ourselves, if we allow ourselves to be comforted and open, instead of hiding away in shame and fear, their power will decrease. It can be a long road and the pace is different for everyone, but our nightmares can loose a lot of power over us, with time and gentle patience. _That_ , my little love, is something Papi can promise.”  
  
Juice had only small dry sniffles left now, the words of his Papi helping just as much as his warm body and Mr. Bunny safely tucked to his own chest. Daddy came back with the bottle and the cuddly blanket Juice loved and within seconds, he was sucking the warm, sweet peach soup in Papi’s arms, with the blanket snugly wrapped around him.  
  
He’d been wet, shivering and alone. Now he was warm and dry, cuddled up in loving arms, like he should’ve been when he’d been left in the dark and cold as a terrified child. He wasn’t abandoned in a motel room, or brutally spanked on roadside. His cuddle toy was tucked in his arms, not burning in the open fire, no one pressed his face down his urine stinking sheets and then locking him in a root cellar. He wasn’t beaten with a belt, forcefully shaved, starved or left alone in a basement for days.  
  
No one called him stupid, disgusting, ugly or whiny anymore. Right now, in this moment, Juice felt completely safe again. Papi was right: the nightmares were horrible, but not almighty.


	8. Filip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's morning and Filip goes through the meeting he and Ronea had with one of the psychologists at Water Lily Pond, the facility Juice will be admitted to, in his head. Of course, that clinic doesn't exist, I made it up, and since it's been a few weeks in time since "Shamrock..." ended, the whole planning of Juice's further treatment was dealt with in that time gap, since I really don't feel like spending several chapters with that process.
> 
> If things seem rushed or confusing in any way, let me know.

Surprisingly, Juice slept through the rest of the night without any unpleasant interruptions. When Filip woke up, he saw him curled up on his Papi’s chest and it looked peaceful. Ronea seemed very much at peace too, which in return made Filip calm. He left the bed carefully, not to wake his boys up, and went to the bathroom. Usually, Ronea was the earlier riser, but this morning Filip felt like he’d had a better night’s sleep than he’d had in weeks and his little family painted such a beautiful picture in bed.   
  
Filip took a quick shower, mentally going through the day. They’d worked out a very thorough schedule, together with Dr. Huang and Miss Dîlan Gilani, the psychologist who was supposed to be Juice’s main contact at the _Water Lily Pond_ , the psychiatric facility Juice would be admitted to at Monday morning. Personally, Filip would’ve liked to keep his lad home for a little longer before the treatment started, but this wasn’t about him, but what was best for Juice.  
  
They’d visited it, him and Ronea, although Juice hadn’t, but the sweet lad trusted his Daddies and while Filip had come prepared to find even the smallest crack in the façade, _Water Lily Pond_ hadn’t looked any different than what the pamphlet showed. Lots of green areas where patients could have time on their own, or participate in group activities, huge windows and soft colors in the various therapy rooms and plenty of tools for literally every age group, although you had to be eighteen to be admitted.   
  
Miss Gilani had turned out to be a positively delightful Kurdish-American in her thirties, bubbling with energy and with the messiest cascade of purple red curls Filip had ever seen. Rather than the suit Filip would have expected from an esteemed psycholigist with, according to Dr. Huang, a splendid reputation, Miss Gilani wore wide slacks with traces of green paint on the thighs, a striped cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of steady sandals. She’d greeted them with warmth and asked them to excuse her looks, because she’d just had a session with a patient in art therapy.  
  
“Welcome to Water Lily Pond, Mr. Telford and… Mr. Telford-Tully, right?”  
“Aye, tha’s correct. I’m Filip Telford an’ this is my husband.”  
“Ronea Telford-Tully, miss.”  
“Ah yes, Ronea… Such a beautiful name, Mr. Telford-Tully. Would you like some coffee or tea or anything else? We have lemonade too. I must apologise for my looks, but I’m coming straight out of the art studio.”  
  
She’d not seemed the least sorry for that, though, and Filip immediately took a liking to her. Miss Gilani seemed like a therapist who’d chosen the right profession, caring more about her patients than her appearance. Before sitting down, Miss Gilani had shown them around the facility and Filip had to admit that the pamphlet hadn’t been excessive. In addition to the rooms for conversational therapy, there was a little patient library with comfy chairs and beanbags, two massage rooms, three rooms for physical therapy, an indoor swimming pool and a small patient kitchen, the art’s room, the “calm corner” room if a patient just needed to be completely alone for some quiet time, and the crown jewel of it all, was of course the kennel.  
  
Miss Gilani had gestured at a woman who was sitting outside with a Golden Retriever clearly comforting her, while a staff member sat close and spoke.  
  
“Our therapy dogs really are the heart and soul of this place. It’s nothing but fantastic to see how well they communicate with our patients and pick up on their mood and stress. Your partner, how’s his thoughts and feelings about dogs?”  
“He was actually rescued by one… a pitbull, I think. Was it a pitbull, Ronea?”  
“I think so, yes. He likes dogs, Miss Gilani. It’s humans he’s not so sure about.”  
  
Miss Gilani had nodded.  
  
“That’s pretty much the theme for most of our clientel. _Water Lily_ is a foundation for what our founder called _seemingly_ hopeless cases. Those who slip through the cracks, so to say. Most clinics aren’t equipped to treat patients who require treatment for multiple mental health problems, certainly not for an extended time.”  
“You don’t have overnight patients?”  
“No. In some cases, if there is a patient who requires that, we usually cooperate with an inpatient clinic who can admit him or her at night. We open at 7 am and close at 5 pm, but it varies a lot when each patient starts the day. Everyone has his or her own personal schedule, where mealtimes and the group activities are mandatory and everyone participates together in small groups.”  
  
Filip had looked around the dining room, in that moment not occupied by anything than four round tables set for lunch.  
  
“Juice has issues with food. Ye have any experience o’ tha’?”  
“That’s a common problem, Mr. Telford, and we have patients who’ve never come closer to share a meal with others, than the line at McDonald’s.”  
“Doesn’t tha’, if ye excuse me, make this… a wee bit shattered in terms o’ treatments? Having all kinds o’ problems to treat instead o’ jus’ one or some?”  
  
Miss Gilani had given a sweet smile and Filip couldn’t help but thinking it said: _my sweet summer child, what do you now about shatters_? A curl had loosened and fallen onto the psychologist’s face and she stroked it away.  
  
“Our patients _are_ shattered, Mr. Telford, because our society mostly is too rigid when it comes to treatments. It’s beyond me how we still try to treat patients with several physical and mental problems like there different sorts of pain exist separately from and unaffected by one another. It’s about money, for most part, of course, but the main problem I saw when I worked at various clinics, is that these patients keep coming back, spending money on ineffective treatment that isn’t effective for them _or_ the clinics in the long run.”  
  
She’d smiled again, this time ironic and a little sad, shaking her head.  
  
“We treat humans with complex disorders like one treatment for one illness, somehow magically will treat the rest too. Our method is expensive, yes, but it works. Since we started, we’ve worked with patients who previously were shipped around from one ward to another, sometimes loosing their insurance or not even affording one in the first place, trapped in a vicious circle of long-term illness, fatigue, long-time unemployment and poverty, and more than 90% of them, six months after finishing the program, show a significant improval in terms of mental and physical health, social life, economy and the ability to work or study.”  
  
Ronea had folded his arms.  
  
“That almost sounds too good to be true, Miss Gilani. And forgive me if I sound suspicious, but I thought you required insurance?”  
“We do, if the patient has one. I’m not a fan of our current helth care system at all, but of course it helps us to have patients with good health insurance, so we can offer those without the same care. Sometimes one has to deal with the Devil, for the greater good. We offer treatment based on _need_ , Mr. Telford-Tully, which is also why we keep a low profile and doesn’t advertise openly, but rather let our contacts in the area, doctors and other medical staff, reckommend patients to us, based on their professional view, rather than a patient’s or patient’s relatives wishes or wallets.”  
“But… isn’t there some kind of waiting list? I mean, a few weeks is nothing, Miss Gilani.”  
  
She’d nodded.  
  
“The thing is, our list is also based on need, not waiting time. Once a patient has been offered a place, it’s his if he still wants it, of course, but while in line, we will always prioritize the, so to speak, _worst_ case. That’s our concept, to treat those who’s problems are simply too complex to treat elsewhere. Juice, fortunately or unfortunately, fits perfectly in that category.”  
  
Afterwards, when Filip and Ronea left the clinic, all Filip could think of, was if Juice would be able to accept the offer, or refuse it due to his self-hatred.   
  
Now he dried his hair off and looked in the mirror at the scarred face with greyish beard. It was only Saturday morning and they were going to the clinic first thing on Monday morning. Unless Juice refused. If that happened, Filip wasn’t sure he’d be able to force him. This wasn’t a thing Daddy could just order for his lil’ one. Grown-up Juice had to have a say as well.


	9. Ronea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Big Juice or Little Juice... sometimes it's hard to know how much of each side is present.

If Big Juice was present, he did one hell of a job hiding, Ronea thought as he fed his baby boy oatmeal. At this point, the age-regression wasn’t a mystery as much as it was fascinating. It did follow a pattern now, one that Ronea knew almost by heart. Juice would only fall into that behavior if he felt safe with the people surrounding him, but it was still a defense-mechanism. Little ones could get comfort, Juice had enough a memory of that for his feelings to respond.   
  
Any kind of love and care in his childhood, was tied up to a few months with some nuns who cared for him as if he’d been their own little baby Jesus and Dr. Huang suspected that could explain some of why Juice seeked out care instead of being suspicious. According to the medical records, Juice had taken longer time than the average child to speak, but he’d actually been very well articulated and with a a rather large vocabulary once he started talking. And since he’d so often been ignored or told to shut up, the language skills were there, just rarely used.  
  
It was as a toddler, where Juice’s happiest time, short as it was, had occurred and now as he was back home with only Papi and Daddy around, there was a lot of toddler Juice showing. He was sitting on his chair but with his knees tucked to the chest, letting Ronea feed him the oatmeal with raspberries. His eyes were all over the kitchen, as if he tried to take it all in, automatically opening his mouth when feeling the spoon. Mr. Bunny first hadn’t been allowed at the table, but the absolute terror in Juice’s eyes to let go of his friend, had made Filip change his mind immediately. This first morning, it was too early for that step.  
  
The long convalescence really had taken it’s toll on Juice’s once fit body. He’d lost muscle mass, was still very stiff and sore in his joints and the lack of cardio excercise – or any real excercise apart fom calm physical therapy – were noticable when he panted from even small efforts. Another problem was his lack of appetite and his high metabolism. It had slowed down now, but after so many years of constant stress and lots of exercise in one form or the other, Juice’s system was so used to burn all the time.  
  
The result was a twenty pounds weightloss in eleven weeks, which wasn’t good at all and since Juice wasn’t even close to carrying some extra fat to begin with, those pounds had been taken from his muscles, giving his whole appearance a rather hollow look.   
  
He wore shorts, not a diaper, baggy green pants and a simple longsleeve t-shirt, black with a few buttons and Ronea had to admit that despite all the progress he’d made, his baby boy still looked really ill. He’d not spent much time outside, having the colorless face of someone who’d been more or less bedbound for weeks and not been able to go out. The grounds of Water Lily Pound would be really good for his body – and hopefully his wounded little heart as well. By the third spoon of oatmeal, Juice didn’t open his mouth.  
  
“Ye’re not hungry today, Juicy?”  
  
Small shook and then their baby boy started crying. Ronea very calmly put the spoon down and pulled the crouched boy from the chair onto his lap.  
  
“C’mere, baby boy. Sit with Papi for a little while.”  
  
Maybe it had to do with the thoughts about the weight-loss just a moment ago, but Ronea couldn’t help but thinking that his boy felt far too light. Since he’d not actually refused food, even if his diet was still limited due to his stomach problems and age-regression, they’d not focused that much on that issue since there were so many other more pressing, but no matter how much Ronea loved to hold his baby in his arms with ease, he really would prefer if that became harder.  
  
Acceptance, although, was key to everything concerning Juice. Not accepting unnecessary relapses, of course, but the ways Juice showed feelings. They’d done so many tests at the hospital and about ten days ago, the doc had tried a more adult approach outside the sessions, which didn’t work out at all. Juice was capable of adult reasoning withing the defined and enclosed area of conversational therapy, but adult Juice didn’t dare to move outside that safe space yet. The shame was just too great to deal with at this point and he’d retreated into his Little side, panicking.  
  
It wasn’t a hiding place, though. Age-regression could often be a symptom of trying to avoid dealing with problems, a deep fear of not being able to handle adulthood, but Juice’s childhood, for most part, had been a very dark place where being little was equal to being a vulnerable prey. It was highly unusual for a victim of that amount of severe abuse to, after ten years of adulthood _away_ from such torment, willingly put himself at risk by showing so much vulnerability as a manipulation to avoid responsibility. And with or without the evalutation, it just didn’t sit well with Ronea’s image of Juice as someone who desperately wanted to express his ”sins” and be forgiven.   
  
Ronea rocked his crying boy a little.  
  
“I know you’re not hungry, baby boy, but your body needs nourishment. It’s screaming for it, even if your appetite hasn’t caught up yet.”  
“S-sorry, P-papi…”  
“Not having an appetite isn’t naughty, Juicy, and Papi knows you’re trying really hard. It’s your first morning at home, baby boy, you gotta give yourself some time and patience. If you can’t stomach the oatmeal right now, Papi can give you something else.”  
  
Usually, you ate what you were served in this house, period, but Juice really had tried and he was still very overwhelmed from being released from the hospital. Ronea kissed his cheek.  
  
“How about you sit with Daddy while Papi makes some almond formula in your bottle, instead of the oatmeal? Would that be a bit easier for now, my little love?”  
“Bad J-juice…”  
“Oh, no, you’re not bad, baby boy.”  
”Ye’re our good lad, Juicy, an’ s’not yer fault tha’ yer tummy is sensitive righ’ now. Papi will make ye a bottle an’ in the meantime, ye’re sitting with me, laddie.”  
  
Ronea smiled at his teary-eyed boy.  
  
“See? Daddy has spoken, Juice. That means Papi and Juice will obey.”


	10. Juice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Juice is still very fragile and Papi steps in.

He’d not used diapers at daytime for a while now, and at the hospital, that had felt good. Diapers on adults were only for those who were too ill or weak to make it to the bathroom, but the night diaper was still Juice’s safety and this morning, he really didn’t feel comfortable in his normal underwear.  
  
He felt _little_ and the boxers were for big boys. It just didn’t fit.  
  
Papi had given him the bottle in his lap for breakfast and that had felt good. Safer, as it did now when Juice was sitting in front of the bookshelf in the new room with Mr. Bunny. Not even internally, Juice could make himself think of it as his. It was the new room, not _his_ room. Safer that way too.  
  
“There you are, baby boy.”  
  
Papi looked so tall from Juice’s sitting position on the floor and he hid his face in Mr. Bunny’s fur.  
  
“Papi’s gonna sit down here too, if that’s alright.”  
  
No, it wasn’t, but Juice wasn’t really sure why. Something was off and before he was even aware of the need, he wet his pants. He sobbed, ashamed and scared now, clutching Mr. Bunny tight.  
  
“Oh, sweetheart, you needed to go? You didn’t feel it?”  
  
Juice shook his head, prepared for a scolding, but Papi just put his arms around him, very gently.  
  
“You know, I think Daddy and Papi and the doc may have cramped in one too many changes at one go, Juicy. If you feel safer in a diaper right now, you’ll wear one, okay? And don’t worry about the mat or your pants, sweetheart. Papi is the master of stain removal. I mean, with all the nasty engine and french fries grease Daddy brings back from work, I’ve been forced to become my own domestic scientist. This aint nothing Papi can’t defeat with some potato starch and laundry soap.”  
  
It felt a little better already and Juice looked up now, Mr. Bunny deeming it safe to do so. Papi had his gentle smile.  
  
“There’s my baby boy. Now lets get Papi’s angel a diaper and some dry pants, okay?”  
  
Juice nodded, slipping a small sniffle and Papi kissed his forehead before helping him up and onto the changing mat. Papi got him out of the wet pants and shorts, washed and dried him and Juice couldn’t help but feeling safer as the diaper went on. Papi got him another pair of loose cargos, grey this time, and helped him up.  
  
“There you go, dry and clean again. And you know what? It’s reading o’clock in about… two minutes. Look. I’ll be right back with the potato starch.”  
  
The schedule on the wall was the same as the one downstairs with clear colors and pictures. It was a book picture right after the one with breakfast and Juice instantly felt better. Not much, but he could feel it and that was something. He looked at the bookshelf, so inviting with all the titles. Papi smiled when he came back, sprinkling the white powder on the carpet stain.  
  
“Would you like to pick one, baby boy? Or should Papi take care of that decision for today?”  
  
That was the best thing he’d heard so far this morning and Juice nodded enthusiastically, which made Papi chuckle and peck his nose.  
  
“Papi will choose Brambly Hedge, and you know why?”  
  
Juice shook his head and Papi retrieved the book, smiling as he snuggled up with him on the couch.  
  
“Because when I first read them in secret as a teen, seeing them at the library, I dreamed of having a kitchen just like Mrs. Apple’s in the book. And maybe one day, if I flutter my eyelashes enough, Daddy will give me one.”  
  
Juice giggled, Papi was being silly. He didn’t need to _bribe_ Daddy for a Mrs. Apple kitchen, because if he really wanted one, Daddy would do everything he could to give it to him.  
  
Being read to like this, had become one of Juice’s favourite things, feelings being little _or_ adult – or just all over the place. And Papi had so many good books, fairytales and stuff Juice had never heard and to just sit close, leaning onto his chest with the cuddly blanket and Mr. Bunny, while sucking on the pacifier and listening to Papi’s voice, was exactly what he needed this morning.  
  
He wasn’t sure where Daddy was, but Papi was calm, so he probably knew and since he wasn’t going to look for him, that meant everything was fine. Right now, at least.


	11. Filip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And Daddy is definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent NOT hiding in the garage...

He wasn’t hiding. The garage was, after all, a place where one could expect to find him and normally, whatever that meant in Filip’s case, looking over his Dyna Street Bob, sipping on a cup of tea – since his husband would highly disapprove beer, not to mention scotch at this hour – and listening to some Irish folk songs or old school British metal. His dear husband didn’t share Filip’s appetite for Venom, Motörhead and Iron Maiden so it would be rude to blast inside the house unless Ronea was away.  
  
Winding down from the week with some love and care for his bike was more or less a give on weekends anyway and Ronea knew where he was so no, it wasn’t hiding. Except when it was.  
  
Filip wasn’t afraid of showing feelings, neither good nor bad ones, but this wasn’t for sharing. Not when he was bawling his eyes out in the old garden chair at the back of the garage with Cronos’ raspy voice and dirty base as company. He would be left alone too, Filip loved his husband for reading him that well when it wasn’t a good time for an explanation.  
  
Feelings per se didn’t scare Filip and crying didn’t make him feel ashamed. Hadn’t in many years and Filip sometimes thought it was partly his Scottish upbringing with the drunken men sobbing to folk songs late at night that had somehow balanced up the get up and stop whining attitude you put on in sober daylight. Thing was, while it often had surprised those who saw it, Filip had always found it easy to cry. He was, after all, an emotional person who all his life had balanced that side up with his equally strong need for reason and logic. You could go ahead and have a good cry, bawl it all out and take some deep breaths, but once you’d done that, you should try your damndest to return to a realistic and sober thinking – even if you were a whole bottle of Scotch in.  
  
Filip slumped back in the chair, closing his eyes for a moment, just breathing slowly as tears kept running down his face. He’d never really been much for crying over his own misfortunes, only others. Or, to be specific, Ronea’s and Juice’s. When he was a lad, Filip had weeped when he got a taste of first da’s hand, then his belt, but as he grew up to a teen, Filip had learned to shut his water works down when da’s belt came off, as most of the lads did.  
  
All he wanted, was to make his husband and lover happy and safe. Filip had ransacked his thoughts, intentions and feelings so regularly for most part of his life, even more so when first dating and then marrying Ronea. Learning how to guide and rule, could be just as hard as obeying. Filip had tried both but never felt anything even remotely close to calm and happiness in submission. He’d never been submissive with Ronea, of course, and his earlier relationship hadn’t lasted very long, but Filip knew in his heart that he’d never been and for all he knew about himself, never would be submissive. His da had beaten and oppressed him more than enough, just as Ronea’s old man had, and despite their sometimes pretty similar backgrounds, they’d turned out very different.  
  
They were raised by old-fashioned, working class men in a time where, if you got paddled at school, prayed to God that your da wouldn’t find out, because he wouldn’t be pissed off at the school, but fold his belt and make sure you couldn’t sit in class without clenching your teeth for a week. In their defense, Patrick Telford and Fred Tully had never smacked their wives around, or enjoyed to be cruel on purpose. They were boorish, traditional men who couldn’t see past their own little bubbles of work, sports, betting, hanging down the bar with their mates or by the telly at home, but within those limits, caring. And the very idea of treating a child the way Juice had been manhandled, would’ve horrified them.  
  
Maybe, if the old men dared to dig deep enough into their alcohol and Bible verse pickled hearts, they’d even admit that beating, starving and scaring a kid half to death, was a hundred times more immoral than grown-up gay men in a consensual, polyamorous relationship. Filip wouldn’t hold his breath for such confessions though.  
  
The strenght in a relationship like his and Ronea’s, and the one with Juice, was how it forced them all to constantly communicate. Lots of people tried to open up their relationship out of curiosity and boredom and sure, nothing wrong with that, but in Filip’s opinion, too many regular twosome couples didn’t really understand how much more effort it took to make a polyamorous relationship work in terms of time, communication and honesty.  
  
Crying in solitude wasn’t hiding when Filip did it, only when Ronea or Juice did. It had nothing to do with their roles, but with how they felt from it. Filip felt better when he could just take a moment to bawl in peace, collecting his thoughts and clear his mind. Not everytime, of course, there were always exceptions and he’d been weeping on his husband’s shoulder or sobbed in his arms plenty, but today Filip needed solitude, because he simply couldn’t stop thinking about his lads.  
  
There was a buzz in his pocket and Filip picked up his phone.  
  
_Coffee and shortbreads in ten, baby._  
  
Ten minutes. His husband was too perceptive sometimes. Not that Filip actually minded. And now as he’d had a moment to bawl and collect his scattered thoughts and feelings again, he felt much better. Some coffee and shortbreads would be great.


	12. Ronea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Juice may be fragile, but he's not broken.

Juice clearly felt more relaxed now, when he was back in his Little space. It was a very sharp turn from the adult person at the hospital, but not necessarily unhealthy. The age regression was real, confirmed by doctors, and Ronea and his husband were determined to follow the medical reckommendations and not force Juice out of it. If anything, their boy seemed really anxious if he was out of the Little space and that wouldn’t do with all the changes right now.  
  
In practical terms, it didn’t really mean too many adjustments. Diapers fulltime at home instead of only at night, for a start. It was important that Juice got used to this particular transition slowly, considering his stress problems. At the day clinic, he would have to use the bathroom, of course, but at home he’d wear diapers for a while. Right now, as Ronea was pouring coffee for himself and Filip, Juice was rolling on his mat like he’d done before he ended up in hospital. Mr. Bunny was with him, of course, and so was the cuddly blanket and pacifier. He looked very much like a baby in a grown man’s body and Ronea felt that small tug of sorrow in his chest. Being an actual parenting kind of Papi hadn’t been his wish, neither had it been Juice’s or Filip’s. Their little game had simply stirred up so much more confusion, pain and need than any of them would’ve been able to prepare for.  
  
By going back to the babylike treatment they’d had before the hospital stay, only now in a much more settled and planned form, the idea was that Juice would grow – or rather _heal_ – up again, experiencing enough love and security in his little mindset, so that he could take those positive feelings with him into ”adolescence” and, finally, adulthood. It was, basically, the childhood he’d never had that hopefully would make the man strong in a good way this time.  
  
Filip smiled when he got the steaming coffee and cookie in front of him.  
  
“Thank ye, Ronea.”  
  
Ronea kissed his hair, not commenting on the redness in his husband’s eyes. He knew more than well why Filip had needed some time alone in the garage after breakfast. It wasn’t their usual Saturay routine, but Juice was so trusting at the moment, knowing that this first weekend at home would be a little different as they all prepared for the actual treatment program to start.  
  
“Daddy?”  
  
Juice had come up from the floor and padded over to Filip’s side, pacifier popped in his mouth and Mr. Bunny in his left hand. Filip looked up, smiling.  
  
“Aye, laddie?”  
“Daddy sad?”  
  
Filip put his cup down and took Juice’s free hand.  
  
”No. Well… maybe jus’ a wee bit, Juicyboy. Daddy’s alright.”  
“Juice give a cuddle?”  
  
Those big, brown eyes were Daddy’s kryptonite and Ronea hid a smile when Filip scooted his chair out a bit and let his boy sit down to cuddle him on his lap.   
  
It was very much Little Juice who comforted his Daddy, but it was clear that Juice wasn’t trapped in that mindset. His eyes weren’t confused or questioning, like a child’s might’ve been when someone strong they loved crumbled before them. He brought Mr. Bunny’s paw to Filip’s cheek.  
  
”Mr. Bunny says don’t be sad, Daddy.”  
“Oh, Juicyboy…”  
  
It wasn’t fair, making the head of the household break like this, but since when was life fair? Ronea swallowed and looked away for a moment, as he saw his husband cry in Juice’s arms. The boy held him, stroked his back a little and nuzzled his neck while sucking on the pacifier.  
  
“Daddy?”  
“Aye, lovey?”  
”Wh-when we gonna play?”  
”Righ’ after Daddy’s finished his coffee, lil’ one. Ye have any idea o’ wha’ ye wannae do until lunch?”  
“P-puzzles?”  
  
Filip stroked a tear from his own face, sniffling a bit before he smiled.   
  
“Puzzles sounds like a great idea, Juicyboy.”


	13. Juice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Puzzles are fun, allowing yourself to feel like you deserve it, is way harder.

”No, that piece b-belongs in that c-corner, Daddy.”  
“Aye, ye’re right. Here. Ye have more o’ the orange ones in yer pile, lovey?”  
“I’ll l-look, Daddy.”  
  
Making puzzles was fun. The image was a huge farm with so many characters and details it was almost impossible to finish it without the picture on the box as a guide. Juice was laying on his stomach, feet sometimes in the air, sometimes straight on the carpet and he held himself up on his elbows over the one thousand piece puzzle, looking for yellow ones for a tractor.  
  
Papi was in the kitchen cooking jam and Mr. Bunny sat by the puzzle box, watching and also keeping an eye on Juice’s pacifier in it’s own small box. Juice looked up at his friend and smiled. Mr. Bunny had been right about giving Daddy a cuddle. Daddy was much happier now.   
  
The puzzle was quite large and difficult and Juice wondered how long he could have it.   
  
“Daddy?”  
“Aye, lovey?”  
”S’ a big p-puzzle, right, Daddy?”  
”Aye, it is. Don’ think we’ll finish it today.”  
”Wh-when we hasta l-leave it b-back, Daddy?”  
“What do ye mean, Juicy?”  
  
Daddy looked over his reading glasses with a confused expression and Juice bit his lip.  
  
“S’ a… a nice puzzle, Daddy. E-e-exp…exp-pensive…”  
”Juicyboy, this… this puzzle is _yers_ , laddie.”   
  
Daddy rose to sit crosslegged and patted his lap.  
  
”Come, sit with Daddy a bit, aye?”  
  
A bit suspicious, Juice moved and crawled up in Daddy’s lap. Daddy hugged him and nuzzled his hair.  
  
“The last time ye were little, I know ye dinnae have a lot o’ things, Juicy. Especially not things tha’ were truly _yers_. Righ’?”  
“Uh-huh. Hadn’t, Daddy.”  
“When did ye start having yer own things for real, lovey?”  
“Uhm… Wh-when was big Juice. Juice not big now…”  
”Aye, ye’re a lil’ boy now, but this time, ye’re _Daddy’s an’ Papi’s_ wee one, an’ we wannae give our laddie the things he dinnae have the last time he was little.”  
“S’not for Juicy… S’n-not for J-juan Carlos…”  
“Then who’s it for, laddie?”  
  
Juice shrugged, because that was a question he truly couldn’t answer. It was a legit question though, since there clearly were no other boys – or girls, for that matter – in the house. The fairytale books, the playmat, the puzzles, crayons and watercolors… Papi and Daddy hadn’t had them before, certainly Juice hadn’t seen them use that kind of stuff.  
  
“Juicyboy? Look at Daddy, sweet darlin’.”  
  
Daddy looked serious, but not at all disappointed, angry or sad. He stroked Juice’s cheek.  
  
“Ye know Papi’s jewlery box an’ all his shoes an’ fancy panties?”  
“Uh-huh.”  
”How much o’ tha’ do ye think he has?”  
”Lots, Daddy.”  
”Aye. An’ do ye think he bought all o’ it by himself? Every lil’ stocking, earring an’ death trap shoe?”  
“M-maybe not… all of them, Daddy.”  
  
Daddy smiled.  
  
“Tha’s righ’, Juicy. Papi loves nice clothes an’ shoes an’ all tha’ stuff, but he’s very careful with money, so he often puts his own needs last an’ prioritizes me, ye an’ our home. So… since Daddy knows how much Papi loves his wardrobe an’ beauty routine, Daddy loves to help him obtain it. I buy him wha’ some people might consider ‘unnecessary things’, because tha’ makes him happy an’ Daddy loves to see Papi happy. Daddy also loves to see _Juice_ happy.”  
“Papi sh-should be happy, Daddy.”  
“Aye, an’ so should _ye_ , lil’ one.”  
“D-daddy too. Da-daddy not cry…”  
  
Now Daddy took his hands.  
  
“Did ye get scared or worried when Daddy started to cry, Juice?”  
  
Juice nodded and Daddy kissed his hair again.  
  
“Can ye tell Daddy why it made ye scared or worried, lil’ one? First o’ all, which word do ye feel is the most correct one to describe wha’ ye felt?”  
“N-not sure, Daddy…”  
“It’s perfectly alright to guess, Juicyboy.”  
”Uhm… didn’t like it, Daddy… S-seeing Daddy sad.”  
”Okay, tha’s really good, lovey. Do ye know why ye dinnae like seeing Daddy sad?”  
”Cause Juice l-loves Daddy, of course.”  
”An’ when ye love someone, ye don’ wannae see’im sad, righ’?”  
“No.”  
“So wha’ did ye do when ye saw Daddy being sad?”  
“G-give cuddles?”  
“Exactly, an’ ye know wha’, darlin’? Tha’ helped Daddy lots an’ lots. Doesn’t matter if ye’re big or little, if ye’re a man or woman, boy or girl. Everyone can feel sad an’ small an’ overwhelmed sometimes, Juicyboy, an’ ye know wha’ the great thing is?”  
“What, Daddy?”  
  
Daddy smiled.  
  
“Tha’ even if ye’re feeling quite _little_ yerself, ye can still be _big_ for tha’ sad person for a while, jus’ like ye were for Daddy. An’ even if Daddy sometimes feels a wee bit sad or tired, tha’ doesn’t mean he’s not gonnae be alright, specially when he’s got his brave, strong lil’ lad to comfort him.”  
“And Papi, right, Daddy? Papi’s strong, isn’t he?”  
  
Now Daddy laughed.  
  
”Christ, laddie… Ye know, if tha’ zombie apocalypse comes an’ the living forces are defeated, Papi will be the last one standing, fighting’em with boiling jam an’ silverware while the two o’ us are locked away in his pantry.”


	14. Filip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Filip feels tired and a bit wornout, his husband makes an offer...

”Are ye sure, lovey?”  
”Very. You need this, Filip, and I’m happy to oblige.”  
  
They’d just had lunch and Juice was napping on the couch downstairs. Filip watched his husband who was sitting on their bed, hands folded and eyes calm. Ronea looked at him, a little smile twitching the corner of his mouth.  
  
“I need it too, baby.”  
“It’s gonnae be uncomfortable for ye.”  
”Yes, it will.”  
”Ye’re not gonnae like the feeling.”  
”True. But that’s the point. You’re gonna feel a lot better, Filip, and it’s been quite a while since we did it.”  
“There’s not been a reason for it.”  
“You’re right, baby, but I know you. You need control, and I need you to be in control. This helps, almost always has.”  
”Aye…”  
”Because I’m yours, Filip. I’m not just your husband, I’m your _sub_. And… and if you start treating me like something else, we both know that wont lead to anything good.”  
  
God, his husband was… _something._ Ronea kneeled now and the gesture made Filip’s chest tighten. Ronea lifted his face a little, but kept his eyelashes lowered.  
  
“I ask you to keep me safe, Filip. I’m not your equal and it’s my happy duty to obey you. To make our home a good place for us, to take care of the house and respect you as my superior. I don’t make the major decisions in our family, Filip. I ask and give my opinion, but that’s it. I’m your subordinate and that’s exactly how it’s suppose to be. I chose to give up that power, to trust you with it, and I’ve never regretted that decision.”  
  
The trust. The way his increadible man, with all his being, humbled himself completely, body and soul, in his kneeling… The gesture, how Ronea not just stood on his knees, but kept lowering, legs widened until he could reach out on the floor, hands spread before him in one of the most vulnerable positions a human could assume. Filip swallowed.  
  
“Wha’ if I keep ye in it for a week, lovey…”  
“Then I will wear it with all the dignity I can muster, Filip. I will not protest, or whine or ask for lenience, and should I forget my place and let my tongue slip, I will submit to whatever discipline you deem fit, for any reason.”  
“Ye’re telling me ye wont complain at all, baby?”  
“I can’t promise not to cry or control all of my reactions, Filip.”  
“An’ ye should know I don’ wan’ ye to.”  
  
The idea of putting his husband in chastity for that long… To have a period of time with intensified control over him was a rush if ever there was one. Filip had never asked for it, it was always Ronea who offered, who could feel it within himself when his husband needed extra reassurance. It would mean a time of less teasing, maybe none at all, and with a submission so complete it would look bad unless you knew how it worked.  
  
Filip put a hand onto his husband’s head.  
  
”Ye know the rules, lovey?”  
“Yes, Filip.”  
“Is there anything ye need to tell me before we set this in motion?”  
”I… It’s just my usual insecurity speaking, and I should know better, but I still need to tell you not to cut my hair. I’m sorry, Filip, that one’s just…”  
“Lovey, I know an’ I expected ye to say it. We cannae do this unless ye’re completely honest with me, an’ we’re _always_ taking the PTSD into consideration.”  
“I know, Filip. It’s always helpful to me when you remind me of our rules.”  
  
Filip now took his husband’s face between his hands and lifted it.  
  
“I will never ever cut, shave or otherwise change yer hair, or any part o’ yer body, Ronea. I will never steal or destroy yer possessions, nor will I put ye through public or otherwise unwanted humiliation or discomfort o’ any kind. An’ may God strike me down on spot, if I ever missuse yer trust in me, by using yer body or soul, in a way tha’ make ye feel like anything less than my heart.”


	15. Ronea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ronea is settling into his temporary role.

This first whole day at home was a long and tedious one in many ways, with their feelings a little all over the place, but nothing unexpected or too difficult to handle. Ronea was locked up in the snug chastity belt and had changed from his boxer briefs to a pair of panties under his skirt, chosen by Filip. Small steps into a big, if temporary, transformation.  
  
There were strict rules for this particular part of their marriage, rules they’d worked out together and agreed upon. They’d even sought out counsil from a couple at the BDSM club and discussed the matter with them several times while forming the agreement.  
  
First of all, it had to be completely consensual and for a limited time, that was a given. Secondly, they both had to be physically and mentally fit for it. This wasn’t something you did while having a flu or broken leg, or suffering from repeated problems with PTSD. Any kind of reactions you suspected even the slightest to come from a place of medical discomfort, phsyical or mental, meant you paused until you were both sure it was more beneficial to continue, than not. And thirdly, which was a given, but nontheless important to repeat: you couldn’t, under any circumstances, either as the dom or the sub, hide your intentions or feelings. Fourth and last rule, the most important one: the sole intention behind every little action, both from the dom and the sub, had to come from a place of love and respect.  
  
For two weeks, Ronea had now signed up for absolute submission. He’d freely and wholeheartedly given up every aspect of control of his life, meaning Filip would have to approve his clothes and appearence, his  household schedule, when he could leave the house and where. There was no room for negotiating, in fact, trying to argue or even disagree with Filip unless it was a matter of actual physical or mental damage, would result in a spanking of the very much non-playful kind.   
  
Ronea was cooking dinner now, spaghetti and meatballs, and Filip had taken Juice outside, despite some intial protesting. The boy had loved the puzzle and got completely into it, which was good, but he still needed some fresh air and the back of the house was a perfectly safe place, hidden from unwanted eyes. Filip had not taken no for an answer, but of course he’d not been impatient or hard in his rulings. Ronea had, as the temporary contract dictated, simply told Juice that what Daddy said would be done and that they both wanted to be good boys for him. No questions, that was Filip’s responisibilty for the moment and as Ronea had returned to the kitchen to start with dinner, his husband had given him an approving nod that sent a thrill of sligtly anxious pleasure down Ronea’s spine.  
  
While Filip would still _ask_ him to do this or that, the question mark was only a formality, for Juice’s sake. In the past, when they’d been alone, Filip would simply give the order, soft and lovingly, but it would still be an order. Everything would be an order now too, unless Filip specifically said it was a question, but it would never be up to Ronea to figure it out.  
  
The meatballs were rolling in the pan and Ronea took out plates to set the table when he heard Filip entering the kitchen.  
  
“Ronea, darlin’?”  
“Yes, Filip?”  
”Tonight, after we’ve put Juice to bed, ye’re gonnae take half an hour hike while I do the dishes an’ then I’ll draw ye a bath.”  
“Yes, sir. May I prepare the breakfast first?”  
”Wha’ did ye plan for breakfast tomorrow?”  
”Boiled eggs and fruit salad.”  
”Ye may pick out wha’ ye need on the countertop an’ prepare the coffee.”  
“Thank you, Filip.”  
  
He blushed now, couldn’t help it, but this kind of ordering had that effect on him. There was a pang of excitement and he’d been half hard since the chastity went on. The device was one of those that allowed his cock to swell a bit until it got uncomfortable – deliciously uncomfortable – and the arousal wasn’t visible in the skirt he wore unless you looked closely.  
  
He didn’t want to take a hike, nor letting Filip do the dishes, but Ronea had literally given up even his usual voice of opinion for now and it was extremely difficult, especially in the initial steps of transformation. He looked up from the frying pan, feeling his blushing getting deeper as he saw Filip lingering by the countertop.  
  
“Is there anything you want me to do for you right now, love?”  
“As a matter o’ fact…”  
  
Filip moved from the countertop to the stove now, swirling his arms around Ronea from behind. His whiskers tickled Ronea’s ear.  
  
“I wannae hear my husband Ronea Telford-Tully tell me tha’ he deserves to be loved… an’ adored… an’ worshipped… an’ how lucky Filip Telford is, for having a man like him…”  
  
The blush now reached Ronea’s neck and he started.  
  
”I, Ronea Telford-Tully, deserve…”


	16. Juice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you need a little ice cream and talking with Daddy to relax, especially when you're not quite sure who you are.

”Would you like some more meatballs, baby boy?”  
”No, thank you, Papi.”  
”You’re full?”  
”Is full, Papi.”  
”Savory full or dessert full?”  
”J-juice has dessert too?”  
  
Papi stopped in his movement with the plates and looked at him.  
  
“Of course you’ll have dessert, Juice.”  
“Why wouldn’t ye have any dessert, lil’ one?”  
  
Daddy seemed confused, Papi too, and Juice automatically pulled his knees up to his chest. Papi put the plates down and lowered beside him.  
  
“Baby boy, in this house, _everyone_ gets dessert, even if we’ve been naughty, which you most certainly haven’t. You remember the rule about never ever using food as a punishment?”  
“J-juice didn’t f-finish…”  
”Sweetheart, Papi knows exactly how much his baby boy _should_ have, but he also knows that it’ll take some more time until your tummy actually _can_ have that much. The portion Papi serves you, is the one you _should_ have eventually, not the one you _must_ have. You’ve done a really good job with the meatballs, baby boy, and if you want some ice cream for dessert now, you can.”  
“An’ ye’re not greedy or rude or ungrateful, Juicy. Dessert is for _everyone_ , not for one or a few, it’s meant to be shared.”  
  
Papi nudged his forehead a little, making him look up and then gave him a peck on the nose, smiling.  
  
“A little raspberry ice cream with Daddy and Mr. Bunny by the telly, how does that sound?”  
“P-papi comes too?”  
“As soon as I’ve put the leftovers in the fridge, sweetheart. Filip, love, would you like some coffee?”  
“Aye, lovey, that’ll be nice. Thank ye, it was a lovely dinner an’ ye can leave the dishes for now. C’mere, Juicy, lets put on some _Winnie the Pooh_ , aye?”  
“O-okay, Daddy. Thank you, Papi.”  
  
Papi gave him another kiss.  
  
“You’re welcome, Juicy. Now off you go and I’ll get you and Daddy the ice cream soon. I’ll leave the dishes, Filip.”  
“Thank ye, dear.”  
  
Daddy took Juice’s hand and rose from the table. Juice followed, making sure not to let go of Daddy or Mr. Bunny as he padded after him to the telly. The playmat was there, so was Juice’s favourite blanket and he stopped and pointed at them.  
  
“J-juice has blanket, Daddy?”  
“Of course, lil’ one. Ye want yer pacifier as well?”  
”Please, Daddy?”  
”Good thing I snagged it on the way then. But ice cream first, righ’?”  
”Ice cream f-first, Daddy. Please.”  
”Ye’re such a polite lad, lovey. Let’s get snuggled down, aye?”  
“Okay, Daddy.”  
  
He was tired. He felt that now as he got comfortable in Daddy’s arms. He shuddered a little.  
  
”Ye’re cold, lil’ one?”  
”A little, Daddy.”  
  
Daddy wrapped the blanket around them both, tucking in Mr. Bunny as well and Juice started to relax again. It was warm and comfortable here, Daddy’s arms were safe and the sounds of Papi in the kitchen familiar and soothing. Still, Juice’s head was spinning a little and he squeezed Daddy’s hand.  
  
“Daddy?”  
“Aye, darlin’?”  
”Is… is Little Juice now.”  
”Ye are, lil’ one.”  
”Was big… at hospital.”  
”Yeah, tha’s righ’. Ye were. Is it confusing, Juicy?”  
”Is, Daddy. T-too o-often, changing…”  
  
Daddy hugged him a little harder and kissed his crown.  
  
“Ye know, Juicyboy, Daddy isn’t all too worried about tha’. I’ve noticed tha’ the nicer we are to _Little_ Juice, the more we get to see an’ hear o’ Big Juice. Ye’re not crazy or schizophrenic or psychotic, lovey, ye just have a mind dealing with so much heavy stuff, it’s gonnae do whatever it needs to get some peace and quiet. An’ there’s a lil’ boy in there, tha’ needs a lot o’ love, care an’ attention. An’ me an’ Papi are gonnae try an’ give tha’ wee bairn wha’ he needs.”  
“Wh-what if h-he’s n-n-naughty, Daddy? Y-you gonna sp-spank him?”  
“No, lil’ one. Tha’ wee lad has already had far too many spankings an’ Daddy an’ Papi are convinced tha’ spankings are only for big lads an’ lasses, who’re old enough to ask for’em because they know it’ll help.”  
“S-still s-sounds strange, Daddy…”  
“I know it does. But ye see, Daddy an’ Papi like science an’ we trust medical professionals far more on this subject than a random bloke trying to pretend he dinnae feel humiliated or scared when his old man beat his arse. Ye see, t’is often easier for us not to admit tha’ we’ve felt tha’ vulnerable, to hide tha’ scared kid where we cannae hear’im cry. Especially when the one who hit’im, either by spanking or smacking around, is someone who’re supposed to love an’ protect’im.”  
  
There was a sigh from Daddy.  
  
“When my da used his belt or punter or only his hand, an’ before I hit purberty, also tugged my pants off, I felt… extremely weak an’ humiliated. Sometimes he was drunk when he did it, but not always. An’ I know tha’ there are those who think tha’ if the parent is calm, sober an’ doesn’t yell or tug at ye, but simply takes ye over the knee or have ye bend over a chair, explaining why they’re gonnae spank ye, it’s somehow completely different than when it comes outta nowhere, but… tha’s really jus’ in retrospective.”  
“R-retrospective, Daddy?”  
“Aye. S’our adult mind tha’ rationalises away the child’s pain, fear an’ humiliation, not outta cruelty, but for survival. How else can tha’ wee one inside us, tha’s still scared an’ humiliated, feel safe? See… I’m rationalising my da’s beatings by telling myself tha’ he was an oldschool, stressed out an’ overworked alcoholic, but tha’ only helps grown-up Filip. There’s still the wee lad Filip who hid under his bed some nights, only getting back in bed, greetin’ himself to sleep once he was certain tha’ da was out cold.”  
“D-daddy’s da wasn’t nice…”  
“No, laddie, he wasn’t. Not when he was drunk or had had a bad day. An’ I know tha’ Lil’ Juice, had to hide away from his foster da’s too.”  
“J-juice was J-juan an-an-and Juan’s not good boy.”  
  
Daddy made a small sound, something between a sigh and a snort.  
  
“Daddy has read a lot about wha’ other grown-ups have written about tha’ wee lad Juan Carlos an’ ye know wha’? In tha’ entire stack o’ papers, Daddy couldna’ find a single reason for anyone to treat Juan Carlos, or Juice, bad. Aye, ye did some naughty an’ bad stuff as a kid, but so did Daddy an’ Papi an’ pretty much every human being. An’ while Daddy believes in firm consequences for naughty kids, spankings aren’t among them. Nor is being locked inside a dark room, getting the silent treatment, not having food or getting a head shave or having yer things destroyed.”  
  
Daddy cuddled him softly, rubbing his nose in Juice’s hair.  
  
“The lad I have in my arms now, Juicy, is both a lil’ one an’ a big one. There’s still tha’ sad, hurt child who never got to have a real childhood an’ I wannae comfort him. I cannae give’im, nor wee Filip, better memories or erase those I have, but I can give’im all the love I have for’im, for the lil’ one an’ the grown man.”  
  
Juice cried a little now and Daddy shushed him.  
  
”Ye’re gonnae grow, no, _heal_ up, lil’ one, an’ this time, ye’re not gonnae get beaten or starved or left alone. Because I love ye, Daddy an’ Papi love ye so much an’ people don’ get to hurt someone an’ call it love to protect themselves from the reality tha’ they’ve scared, hurt an’ humiliated a wee one, because they dinnae take two seconds to think about wha’ those things would’ve been seen as, had they done’em to an adult.”


	17. Filip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have been unexpectedly sucked into the GOT/ASOIAF fandom for the last days and so my struggling crackship trio has had a little break from my angst, but here's some pre bedtime snuggles and thoughts from Daddy <3 (And if you're into some Jon Snow/Satin Flowers angst/pining/smut stuff, go check out "A Bed of Straw and Silk".)
> 
> *kisses and hugs*

Out of all the horrors and wrongs ingraining Juice’s mind, his fear of rejection and abandonment was clearly the worst, but the self-depriciation came close. One of the lad’s major issues was his low sense of self and how he seemed completely unable to find any value within himself aside from being good with computors. Working on finding himself, trying to separate all the voices _about_ Juice from Juice’s own was no easy task, to say the least, and to make that voice actually speak up on it’s own was still far away. The child Juan Carlos had simply been a far too good learner in the art of suppressing and silencing himself.  
  
Juice, who at this point seemed very much like a three- or four-year-old, clung onto his Papi and Mr. Bunny on the couch. It was hard to know how he would react to the day clinic. For the first week, they would stay with him there. Both of them on Monday and on Wednesday, Ronea would be alone with him there, while Friday was for Filip. It was important to start slowly, Miss Gilani had explained and the process would also be partly monitored by Dr. Huang.   
  
The severity of Juice’s age-regression meant that his need for reassurance and safety was on the level of a child’s and it would be harmful to treat him like the last weeks progress at the hospital had fixed that problem. No one who’d been involved in Juice’s treatment this far, had seen signs of the lad trying to manipulate them. The regression wasn’t a way for Juice to fend off responsibilities or control his surroundings, which could often be the case with this problem, but a way to communicate.  
  
His reactions when trying to speak about his pain in an adult way, as an adult, had been extremely traumatizing and caused him to pass out from fear and overwhelming more than once, even while on mediciation. Those reactions hadn’t been manipulation in any way, the shock and terror had been real and agonizing to watch. Juice had never had a safe place before and to force him out of this one would only make him worse. Dr. Huang had summorized it pretty well, Filip thought:  
  
“It is very important that we don’t loose sight of the child while focusing too much on Juice’s actual age, physical size and the fact that he’s had several well-functioning part of an adult life for many years. Much as, for example, someone suffering from dementia, he needs to be met at the level he currently exists on. Reminding him of things he’s been able to handle in the past, or pushing him towards more independence than he’s capable of picturing right now, will add more stress and fear, which often can increase the regression.”  
  
Juice had been abandoned as a child, he’d never had an actual childhood, had for the most part only experienced how being a child was a risk to his physical and mental health, even his life. When Dr. Huang had asked Filip if they were truly prepared for how much work this would mean for him and Ronea, if they’d thought it through, Filip surprised himself by not being offended. Since Juice had been admitted for the first time, Filip had changed a lot too. The worry wasn’t gone, but the most gnawing part of it, his own insecurity about not being enough for his lover, had become easier to handle.  
  
Now, Filip could see a much more clear line between what was reasonable for him as a partner to help out with, and what had to be left to the medical professionals. He wasn’t a doc or a therapist, he was a dominant partner and Daddy, and for a while still, it was the latter role that Juice needed. It both did and didn’t remind of Ronea’s bad periods in the past. There’d sometimes been months without sex, due to Ronea’s demons, days and weeks where he didn’t need a lover, but a protector and that had been Filip’s role then and would be now.  
  
Juice yawned and Ronea looked tired too. It was still early, but they had a big day coming soon and Filip’s lads both got easily overwhelmed if they were knackered. Filip reached his hand out to stroke his husband’s nape.  
  
“Think we better call it the night, lovey.”  
  
There was a slow nod from Ronea but no verbal answer, which meant he was _really_ tired. Usually, there’d be a _yes ,Filip_ and the absent of it disrespectful, especially in their current agreement, but Filip knew his husband was simply settling into the role and it was beautiful to watch how he used his weariness to make himself let go a little more. Filip kissed his cheek.  
  
“I’ll change the lil’ one, while ye get ready.”  
  
Another nod, the smallest little squeeze from Ronea’s hand. This particular kind of behavior was something Juice hadn’t witnessed with his Papi yet, so it was good the lad was so tired now. Filip took the sling and Juice didn’t even protest at having to let go of Papi for a while. He yawned againg and held Mr. Bunny in his hand.   
  
“Is sleepy, Daddy…”  
“Aye, I can see tha’, lil’ one. S’been a long day an’ we have a big one tomorrow.”  
”N-not l-leaving Juice, Daddy?”  
”Never ever, my love. Daddy an’ Papi are with ye all day. Now, lets go upstairs an’ brush yer teeth, aye?”  
”Okay, Daddy.”


	18. Ronea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ronea in his beloved kitchen, making breakfast and having a little look back at his first breakfast ever with Filip, which is mentioned in part 1 of this series, “Well, I wear…" chapter 41.

It had been a very pleasant surprise, that all three of them had slept calmly all night. No nightmares or sudden wake-ups at all and when Ronea rose, he felt truly well-rested. He wasn’t sure if Filip had planned on putting him in chastity today, either way it was his husband’s decision and Ronea took a shower and chose his usual plain hotpants and a pair of black slacks, a white tanktop and brought a white shirt downstairs along with his suit jacket.   
  
It was casual, but still formal enough for this. Not that Miss Gilani had seemed like a formal person in any way, but Ronea still felt more comfortable like this and, which was way more important, his husband always liked him in this outfit.   
  
Starting on breakfast was something Ronea really liked about his mornings. The sun would shine through the kitchen window, he often opened the door to the garden a bit to let in some air and it was nice to have the sounds of nature starting it’s day too while he was cooking and breakfast had a special place in his heart. It had been many years since that first morning in Filip’s apartment, when the man who’d patched him up and then spooned him through the night without making any advances, made him coffee and  scrambled eggs for breakfast and looked through his kitchen for a can opener to spoil Leah with tuna.  
  
In a way, the slightly too dry scrambled eggs and cheap coffee had been even more of a contrast to Aaron than the patching and spooning. Aaron wasn’t a dom, he was a predator with sociopathic tendensies who, while taking full opportunity to benefit from Ronea’s need to serve and please, also took every chance he got to mock him for it. There was no real appreciation, let alone gratitude for Ronea’s domestic efforts, only a judgemental forbearance and sense of entitlement.  And of course, Aaron himself never would do something as “low” as cook for his sub. Not that he knew how to cook anyway.  
  
Filip couldn’t cook either, but the eggs and toast had been as good as a fine brunch to Ronea that morning. He’d still been very sore and once he’d stopped sobbing over the fact that the man who took him in was so gentle and even cared for his cat, they’d had breakfast in bed, supported by some pillows. Ronea had seen the two chairs in the kitchen, hard ones, and it could’ve been a coincidence, that Filip brought the breakfast to bed instead of having Ronea on a hard seat, but it also could’ve been on purpose. He’d never asked.  
  
The healing process had been slow, so goddamn slow, but it had begun for real that morning, even before they’d started dating properly. He’d not even left Aaron yet, it would be a few more weeks until that happened and several months before he could address the assault in any way, but Ronea would always think of that first morning over dry eggs and soggy toast as the start of his relationship with Filip.      
  
This breakfast with fruit salad, softboiled eggs and mixed nuts was lightyears away nutritionalwise and the routine so given by now he could do it in his sleep, but to Ronea, mornings still bore that sense of fresh start. You more or less had to adopt that way of thinking, when battling with longterm illness of any kind. Trying not to overthink the tomorrow, to remind yourself that the night between the maybe disastrous evening and the unknown morning to come, held some actual significance. Maybe tomorrow would be better, maybe this day still had a chance of being a good one. It had taken time to adopt that way of thinking, but with patience and help, Ronea had.  
  
Breakfast had been the dividing force between nightmares and wake. Between insanity and reality, the gateway from the memories to the now. It was during breakfast time, often on a local diner, that he’d faught the demons with Filip and gotten to know one another. The time before the day actually started and the world began to rush…  
  
“M-morning, Papi…”  
  
Juice looked tired, but then he always did these days, and he was dressed in baggy jeans and a t-shirt and Mr. Bunny in his hand. Ronea smiled and left the fruit salad to hug him.  
  
“Good morning, baby boy. You slept well?”  
”Yes, Papi. Bit tired, though…”  
“Well, you were never really a morning person, were you, baby boy?”  
  
Now his sweet boy smiled too.   
  
“Guess not, Papi.”  
  
Then he looked worried and bit his lip.  
  
”Papi?”  
”Yes, my love?”  
”Does… does the diaper show?”  
  
Ronea took a look and shook his head, smiling as his boy leaned into his chest.  
  
”Not at all, baby boy. If you wanna be absolutely sure, you can borrow one of my longer cardigans.”  
“You don’t think I’ll look weird, Papi?”  
”No, sweetheart, but it’s your decision and we have time to try it out after breakfast. I must say, though, that even if you’re worried the diaper might show, it’s probably a lot better for you to wear it instead of going around worrying about your tummy, right?”  
  
Juice nodded then and Ronea could feel him relax a bit.  
  
“I know you’re nervous, but it’s gonna be fine, my little love.”  
“Wh-what if I get… too little over there…”  
”Juice, baby, _Water Lily Pond_ is a place _for_ grown-ups who feel little due to trauma, remember? The patients there all have plenty of different problems they can’t cope with on their own or within the usual psychiatric care. People like you, who’re fighting multiple difficulties all at once and need a safe place to heal better.”  
  
His boy sighed, but seemed less tense and he looked up with those huge, brown eyes that could make Ronea promise him the world and probably trying to bring it to him.  
  
“You’re not leaving me there, right, Papi? Y-you and Daddy w-will be there a-and t-take me home… h-home here again?”  
“Always, my little love. Your home is right here with us, your family. And I’m happy to remind you of that every day for the rest of my life if you need me to.”


	19. Juice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes one has to do scary things to do the things you want to do again.

“Shh, s’alright, laddie. Take a deep breath now, my boy, we’re gonnae get through this together, I promise.”  
  
After breakfast, which he hadn’t even finished, he’d had to run to the bathroom, barely making it before his tummy turned and reminded him why having a diaper today was necessary. Daddy had taken care of it, helped him get clean and did the whole procedure on the changing mat, like before the hospital.  
  
Nothing was big about him right now, it seemed.  
  
He’d gotten a clean diaper on, was helped to brush his teeth and Daddy held him in the sling until Papi had finished up in the kitchen. Getting help with the shoes and jacket had went without problems, as had walking out to the car with Mr. Bunny safe in Papi’s diaper bag. Daddy was driving today and Papi sat in the backseat with Juice, holding his hand and showing _Tangled_ on his iPad. Juice loved that movie and it was funny and in a way he could almost relate a bit to the princess who, when she’d finally dared to leave the tower, was thrown between extatic happiness, panic, relif and guilt for it.  
  
But then they’d arrived at the clinic, parking outside and Juice’s tummy wanted attention again, so now he was frozen in the car, gagging but not vomiting and couldn’t move.  
  
He was a bad boy, a bad human being and a pathetic excuse for a man who needed diapers, pacifiers, teddies and children’s movies to make it through the day and now more people would see how weak and useless he was. How he was _freeloading_ on his lovers who did everything for him now and all he did in return was weeping and complaining and not even saying thanks.  
  
Maybe they’d realise now what a bad boy he was and… what if… Mr. Bunny was in Papi’s bag and they wouldn’t hurt him, right? But Juice was complaining and not behaving and…  
  
“P-please, d-d-don’t h-hurt him… B-be a g-good boy, J-juan p-promises…”  
“Ye’re a very good lad, Juicyboy an’ both ye an’ Mr. Bunny are safe.”  
“R-roadside… he hurt Juan… B-burned Mr. B-bunny…”  
”Aye, Mr. Cruz did that to lil’ Juan Carlos when he was jus’ a wee lad o’ four years old. Mr. Cruz was a very, very bad man for doing so. For hitting lil’ Juan Carlos an’ burning Mr. Bunny. If Daddy had been there, he would’ve saved both lil’ Juan Carlos an’ Mr. Bunny, while Papi would’ve crushed Mr. Cruz’s hands an’ arms so he’d never be able to hurt our lil’ lad or any other wee one ever again.”  
  
But Juice was bad too, wasn't he? He whimpered now, feeling both big and small. Big enough to be punished, too small to do anything about it. They could spank him right here, couldn’t they? No one had stopped when Mr. Cruz spanked him next to the highway. So many cars had passed by while Juan Carlos had been screaming and crying over his adoptive father’s lap.  
  
That spanking, by the road… It had hurt so insanely. The nuns had never spanked him and now they, especielly Sr. Lisa, weren’t there anymore. They’d given him away because he was a bad boy who wasn’t grateful. He was such a naughty and selfish kid and it was his fault that Mr. Bunny was burned alive. Now Daddy would have to punish him and _kill Mr. Bunny again_.  
  
“Juice, sweetheart, please look up for a moment. Look at Papi, baby boy. Your memory is playing hurtful tricks on you, but you’re _not_ back with those mean people. You’re safe and loved and you’re _not_ a bad boy, sweet baby.”  
“No, ye’re not, darlin’. Ye’re our sweet, kind an’good lad an’ we’re so proud o’ ye, Juicy. Ye’ve got nothing to be ashamed o’, we love ye so much an’ I _promise_ ye tha’ Papi an’ I can handle this for ye an’ Mr. Bunny an’ no one will punish ye in any way, ‘cause ye’ve done nothing wrong, lovey.”  
“See, we’re not angry with you, angel. Can Papi hold his good boy?”  
  
“D-daddy…”  
  
He needed Daddy right now and didn’t know why. _Juan was a rude boy who rejected Papi…_  
  
“Oh, _of course_ , sweetheart. Daddy’s cuddles are the best when you’re feeling lost. Papi knows that better than most people.”  
“C’mere, Juicyboy. Come to Daddy… Aye, there ye go, lovey, s’gonnae be fine, Daddy’s righ’ here with ye…”  
  
Daddy’s cuddles were of a different kind than Papi’s and Juice – or Juan, he didn’t really know – curled up to him in the backseat, whimpering. The hands holding him were strong and warm, gently petting his back.  
  
“Shh, lil’ one… Daddy knows ye’re scared, laddie, an’ tha’s okay. Daddy knows tha’ Juicyboy doesn’t like change an’ tha’ he’s worried an’ nervous ‘bout this place. Tha’s normal, lovey, an’ I’d be scared too if I was ye righ’ now. But ye know wha’, lil’ one?”  
  
Juice shook his head into Daddy’s chest and got more circling pets on his shoulders.  
  
“Sometimes, lad, one has to do scary things to get to do the things ye like again, an’ ye’ve already managed to go through so much an’ dealt with it so well, Juicy. Daddy an’ Papi couldna’ be more proud o’ their Juicyboy. We love ye, no matter wha’, an’ we could never be ashamed o’ ye.”  
  
He could feel Daddy’s whiskers tickling the side of his neck.  
  
“I know s’not easy, lovey, but as yer partner an’ caretaker, as a man who _loves ye_ , big or little, an’ who’s promised to look after _both_ his lads an’ try to do wha’s best for them in every situation, I’m asking for yer trust in this, Juicy. Will ye still let me guide ye through this, as we agreed upon?”  
“I’m… Daddy, I… I’m not… I’m not worth the trouble…”  
  
He cried now, feeling so completely out of touch with himself and what was and wasn’t reasonable and normal or how to deal with any of it. The shame had taken over and still, Daddy held him. It was so fucked up.  
  
“Juicyboy, I’ll be honest an’ tell ye tha’ it’s really painful for me to hear ye talk tha’ way ‘bout yerself, but I’m also grateful for the trust ye’re showing me by expressing yerself. Thing is, lil’ one, for every reason yer self-hatred, shame an’ fear has for me to not love ye, I have ten better reasons to do. An’ we’ve not come this far together, for us to admit defeat on a parking lot, _especially_ not by some lowlife scumbag who cannae hurt ye no more outside yer memory.”  
  
Daddy kissed his crown and then gripped his shoulders a little more firm, made some distance and looked directly at him with steady, dark eyes.  
  
“Do ye still wan’ me to be yer Daddy, Juice?”  
“O-of _course_ I do, Daddy. M-more than anything.”  
“Then ye know tha’ when Daddy has made a decision, ye’re gonnae obey, jus’ like Papi.”  
“I-I know, Daddy.”  
“An’ tha’ also means tha’ I take responsibility for tha’ decision an’ be there to fix _anything_ tha’ could go wrong, to the best o’ my ability. I make the final decision in this family an’ ye’re a part o’ tha’ family, so now I’m telling ye, tha’ ye, me an’ Papi will go into the clinic as planned an’ we’ll be with ye the entire time an’ no matter wha’ ye might feel in there, ye can an’ should tell us, so we can deal with it. Okay?”  
  
Juice just nodded. The firm Daddy voice had taken him by surprise, but it didn’t scare him. If anything, it made him feel calmer. But it wasn’t enough, not yet. Juice swallowed.  
  
“Daddy?”  
“Aye, lovey?”  
”If… if I’m… not being a good boy, what… what will you do, Daddy?”  
“Then Daddy will be disappointed, Juicy, but I will still love ye jus’ as much. An’ since I don’ think ye’re big enough for a spanking yet, I will place ye in the naughty corner for a lil’ while when we come home, _if_ ye’re not behaving.”  
“M-mr. Bunny…?”  
”Mr. Bunny will sit with ye in the naughty corner. I will not separate ye, Juicyboy, even if you should act naughty, an’ neither will Papi an’ nothing bad will happen to ye or Mr. Bunny. Tha’s a promise an’ _I swear it_ on the blessed Virgin Mary. May she curse me forever if I break tha’ promise.”


	20. Filip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Filip's lil' lad is one skittish pup. Will Dîlan Gilani be able to reach out?

”Hi, you must be Juice! I’m Dîlan Gilani, welcome to Water Lily Pond.”  
  
Juice didn’t answer and honestly, Filip wasn’t surprised. Just convincing the lad to get out of the car and walk through the doors had taken a lot of work and he looked positively exhausted already and about as scared as the bunny he couldn’t let go of. Filip mentally cursed at himself for treating the stuffed thing as something living even in his mind, but whatever was necessary to get Juice going...   
  
The moment they’d entered the waiting room, Juice had retrieved to a corner and refused to sit down. He’d not talked either, just looked around with the gaze of a trapped animal who couldn’t do anything but keeping it’s back to the wall and look out for threats. Coming along to the therapy room took another fifteen minutes of gentle talking and reassuring and Juice was actually dripping with sweat once they finally got there. Filip felt exhausted too and that had nothing to do with his age or beer gut.  
  
The room, how ever, was very inviting with big, cushy furniture, a thick carpet and several shelves filled with various toys, books and stuffed animals. It was difficult to imagine adults having therapy sessions here but also very comforting to be reminded of that while Juice’s age regression was unusual, it wasn’t unique and that neither the lad nor Filip and Ronea, would be judged around here. Juice, who most certainly didn’t feel comfortable or unjudged in any way, looked around with big, terrified eyes before coming to the conclusion that the safest place here was at the floor by Filip’s feet, clutching onto his legs.  
  
Ronea had sat down crosslegged on the carpet, next to Juice and tried to soothe him by simply holding a hand on his arm and Miss Dîlan Gilani took a seat cushion and placed on a little distance by Juice’s other side on the floor.  
  
“I know it can feel strange and scary to come here for the first time, Juice. It’s huge with lots of rooms and then all the new faces on top of that. It’s not easy to know what to expect and many people get overwhelmed. Some get dizzy, or feel sick. Others don’t even leave the parking lot the first time. But you did, Juice, and I bet you’re pretty exhausted from that.”  
  
Her voice was very soothing, not impatient or intrusive at all and Filip’s husband stroked Juice’s hand.  
  
“You’re feeling tired, baby boy?”  
  
Juice nodded and Miss Gilani smiled.   
  
”That’s perfectly understandable, Juice. And in here, in this house and this room, it’s okay to be tired. It’s also okay to feel scared or small or confused – or all at once. It’s okay to not _know_ what you feel too.”  
  
The lad didn’t seem convinced, still holding onto Filip’s legs and he was shaking from anxiety. Miss Gilani, how ever, wasn’t one to give up so easily. She leaned her arms on her knees.  
  
“I’ve been told that you like animals, Juice. Is that correct?”  
  
Another small nod.   
  
“Do you like cats?”  
  
Nod, yet still not looking.  
  
“How about dogs?”  
  
Nod again and Miss Gilani reached for the folder she’d brough with her to the floor and opened it, picking out a picture.  
  
“This is Yara. She’s a three and half year old, all black pitbull. They’re pretty rare and for some reason, a lot of people think that their color make them more aggressive. Weird, right? Sometimes people have really strange ideas, right?”  
  
Juice was clearly interested in the picture and the barely visible little smile, gone almost immediately, told Filip that he agreed with Miss Gilani. The dog in the picture was actually beautiful and Juice kept looking at it, with something longingly in his gaze. Miss Gilani held out the picture.  
  
“You can hold it and look if you want to.”  
  
Well, he wanted to, that much was obvious but doing it…? No, that was one step too much and the lad curled back into Filip’s legs.  
  
“You don’t have to look at it anymore, Juice, but would it be alright if I tell you a little about Yara?”  
  
It was. Juice nodded again, albeit still cluthing. Miss Gilani stroked one of her messy curls away.  
  
“Yara was a street pup when the kennel that trains our service dogs took her in. Actually, she was caught and put up to be euthanized, but the dog catcher realised that she was a very affectionate little girl and he decided to give her a chance.”  
  
Juice was listening, that much was clear.  
  
“At the beginning, she was an absolute mess. Adorable, but completely feral after living her first year without humans. She would yell at everyhing that moved, she peed everywhere and ran into stuff all the time because she had no concept of walls what so ever. I don’t think she’d ever been inside before so she was literally trying to understand the difference between an opened and a closed door for the first week, running into everyone she could find. Oh, and she absolutely _loves_ water, so we named her Yara from the Game Of Thrones character, the girl from the Iron Islands.”  
  
A giggle, barely audible but the lad obviously found the description of the four legged girl amusing. He looked at the picture, really couldn’t take his eyes of it now and Miss Gilani folded her hands.  
  
“Normally, we take a little tour around the facility and have a chat before meeting any of our dogs, but today I think we can make an exception. Juice, how would you feel about being introduced to Yara?”


	21. Ronea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introducing Yara the black pitbull.

”We’ve got competion, Mr. Telford.”  
”Aye, we sure have, Mr. Telford-Tully…”  
  
In a way, the sight wasn’t surprising at all. Despite not having seen Juice interact with animals before, Ronea had been quite convinced the boy would be a lot more comfortable with dogs or cats than with humans. In that sense, the scene playing out before his eyes was very predictable.  
  
But it was one thing to know about it in theory, to rely on Juice’s memories from his childhood to make something close to a qualified guess about how meeting a therapy dog would turn out, and a whole other thing to watch it. After Filip had taken Juice to the nearest restroom for a much needed diaper change, they’d all walked down to the kennel area where another woman called Cecile had introduced herself and Juice’s behavior would’ve been considered very rude had it not been for how exhausted he was from all the new impressions.  
  
He’d looked all around, eyes darting every corner and he barely knew where to put his feet, needing Filip to hold an arm around his shoulders to keep steady. Sitting down? No way, Juice was too anxious, too wound up and restless to even stand still, let alone sitting. The only thing existing for the boy had been the dogs and then, Cecile had went for Yara.   
  
She was a beautiful creature, no doubts about it and Juice made the smallest little whimper, not knowing wether he could approach or not and Cecile smiled.  
  
“Juice, this is Yara. Yara, this is Juice. Would you like to say hello?”  
  
Well, Juice was already crying, so there’d be no coherent answer from him. He just sank down onto his knees, sniffling and looking at the dog.  
  
“H-hi, Y-yara…’M J-j-juice…”  
  
The pitbull waved her tail, approached him and just looked at the weeping boy, nudging him and stayed close.   
  
“C-can I pet her?”  
“Of course, Juice.”  
  
To Ronea, it felt like they were intruding on a very private moment and he could barely stay composed himself in front of the meeting, even with Filip’s arm around him. Yes, the boy was crying like someone had turned the taps on full and the small whispers he made to the dog were incoherent and mostly a babble of sounds and endearments, but _good Lord_ , what a connection…  
  
The black pitbull now laid her paws onto Juice’s lap and just stayed with him like that and when Juice started to clench his fists, it simply put it’s paws across them, soothing the gesture. And Juice kept crying and crying… Ronea looked at Miss Gilani.  
  
“Is… is this a common reaction?”  
“Very. And I believe Yara is a very happy girl now, since she’s actually been picked for the first time.”  
  
Ronea shook his head, amused and baffled at the same time.  
  
“How are we even gonna get him back in the car now…”  
  
Miss Gilani smiled.   
  
“With difficulty, but if it’s of any help, it’ll probably also be much easier for him to get out next time.”


	22. Juice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Juice is 30, Juan is 4... and while Juice owns the road on his bike, Juan gets hurt by Mr. Cruz, as does Mr. Bunny.

”Sweetheart, we’re coming back tomorrow, I promise.”  
”B-but wha-what if s-s-someone else t-takes her?”  
“That’s not how this works, baby boy. Yara will be waiting for you, same time tomorrow and you can spend more time together, just as Miss Gilani said. No one will take Yara anywhere, she’s scheduled for _you_ , angel.”  
  
Saying goodbye to Yara had been very upsetting and Juice couldn’t stop crying. He’d hold it together while leaving the kennel part, walking through the faciliy and saying goodbye to Miss Gilani, but now, as he was back in the car and Daddy was driving off, he was sobbing as if they’d left the pitbull to be put down. To make matters worse, his tummy was upset again too and he really needed to go.  
  
“G-gonna m-make a mess, Papi. Not good t-tummy...”  
“Will you please turn over on that little road over there, Filip?”  
“Of course, lovey.”  
“Don’t worry, baby boy, Papi’s come prepared.”  
  
Prepared as in bringing an adult potty, sans legs but still. If Juice hadn’t been crying and worried in his tummy, he’d blushed at it, but when you had to go you had to go. At least it was private and he was too tired and unsteady to squat on the ground anyway. Papi removed his diaper and helped him down onto the strange, embarressing plastic piece.  
  
The car covered him from any potential viewers who accidently may go down the small sideroad and while it hurt and was stressful, the need had been pressing on for a while now and not having to hold it in any longer was an almost ridiculous relief. He sniffled and shivered and when he finally seemed done and Daddy kissed his crown.  
  
“Thank God for Papi and his planning skills. I never would’ve thought to bring this.”  
“H-hurts, Daddy.”  
”I know, lovey, but Papi’s got the nappy bag with him an’ the soothing cream.”  
“M-made a mess…”  
“Ye went potty an’ ye did really good, darlin’. Lay down here now, aye? Papi will hold ye.”  
  
Leaning back onto Papi’s lap while being wiped and changed was not a particularly nice experience outside the safety of their house. Not with the road so close, and Mr. Bunny, and the cars… Juice’s mind flipped again, thrown back more than twentyfive years to another road and another stop…  
  
_Mr. Cruz – Dad – is so big and Juan is crying even before the man unlocks the seat belt, lifts him from the car and with ease places his small 4-year-old body across his lap. He’s tugging Juan’s pants and underwear down and places several hard smacks with his huge palm across his bare backside. Besides Mrs. Cruz, who’s just sitting in the car, waiting, only the cars and the nature surrounding the roadside, hear Juan’s terrified screams of horror and pain._  
  
“This is what happens when you misbehave in this family, boy. I don’t tolerate such behavior, do you understand me?”  
  
No, because he’s four years old and where is Sister Lisa and Juan tried to smile, he really did, but this road is unfamiliar, so are the man and woman in the car and no one has spanked Juan like this before, ever. He didn’t know that was a thing, he doesn’t know there’s a word for it, for the horrible, unexpected and ongoing pain on his small backside as his clothes are pulled up again and he’s placed in the backseat again, the pain throbbing on his skin.  
  
He’s four years old and hiding his wet face into Mr. Bunny’s soft body, still smelling a little like home, like Sr. Lisa. He’s keeping silent, as silent as he can, for the rest of the ride, not because he’s a good boy, but because he’s afraid. Because his sore little body has once again been reminded that not all people are as nice and gentle as the sisters. The man and the woman in the front seat don’t talk to him much during the remaining ride. Juan holds his friend clutched in his arms, and Mr. Bunny tells him with the small bunny voice only Juan can hear, that his red skin will heal in a while and that he’s not alone because he’s there with him.  
  
He’s four years old, in a new home and placed in a room full of toys, his backside still so sore and he can’t smile when Dad tells him too, can’t let go of Mr. Bunny to have a look at all the new things in there and Dad is getting mad again, his voice loud and angry, saying that he’s sick of the old stuffy and that Juan is too big for it anyway.  
  
He’s four years old and screaming murder when Mr. Bunny is brutally taken from him, when Dad is holding Juan Carlos in one hand and Mr. Bunny in the other and drags them both into a room where there’s a fire…  
  
He’s four years old and Dad holds him hard enough to bruise his arms, forcing him to watch Mr. Bunny burn…


	23. Filip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Filip feels helpless, but Ronea knows his shit and is mama bear even to an extent he would prefer not to be.

He’s experienced it enough to know. In a darker time, Filip has wore the mask of Ronea’s terrorizer on many occasions. He’s seen his beloved loose sight of him, how the here and now is wiped out and there’s just this bottomless pit of chaotic darkness left. A pit Filip must get down into, in order to pull his heart out of there, even though he’s not always sure what’s lurking in the deep and what forms the terror will take this time. It has so many faces.  
  
Juice isn’t old right now. He’s a small child, around four or five, and has just seen his last comfort brutally destroyed before him, by faces Filip will never truly get to know. He’s crying and begging for _dad_ to stop, that he’ll be a _good niño_ if he can just have Mr. Bunny back… He’s seen his stuffed animal burn, he’s been beaten and he’s too young to understand the concept of _gone forever_. As in no more Mr. Bunny and no more Sr. Lisa. As in PTSD blowing up in his face, shattering the present all over again and while Filip’s responses come easier and faster, more helpful nowadays, he can’t ever seem to get used to the brutality of the sadness it leaves him with. Seeing Ronea trying to rock Juice in his arms is heart wrenching.  
  
“Shh, sweet boy… Papi’s here, just let me hold you, love…”  
  
It’s also painful to know that this memory, this particular wound is almost solely an experience with men and that _dad_ is probably a little too close to Daddy, even if only by name, for Filip to be let near right now. Papi’s name doesn’t have that thorn attatched to it and that’s why _Daddy_ isn’t of any help right now. Juice is so small in this moment and the only comfort he’s known, has been given to him by women. And no, Papi is not a woman, but he’s so motherly in his very own way and Juice needs that more than ever right now.  
  
“Filip, love, hand me the bottle. And the drops.”  
  
Ah, yes, the liquid anxiety meds. Easier to give in moments when Juice is barely capable of swallowing and Filip hurries to add the right amount in the bottle with chilled peach juice his domestic god of a husband has prepared in the bag.  
  
“Here ye go, lovey.”  
“Thank you. Juice, sweet baby, I have something nice for you in the bottle. You want something sweet and chilled to drink, my little love?”  
  
The lad is whining at first, unsure of what to do, but Papi’s got some magic fucking skills and is soon feeding the little one on his lap at the sideroad, a mama bear protecting her cub…  
  
Juice drinks eagerly, the cold sweetness probably tasting nice in the heat and yes, there’s something with sweetness being comforting… He finishes the bottle but isn’t out of the woods yet, not by far and when he searches blindly for Ronea’s chest, mama bear lets him, wavering Filip off with a tired but firm gesture and low whisper:  
  
“Let him, Filip. Now’s not the time, trust me…”  
  
The liquid form of Juice’s anxiety meds works a little faster and Filip counts down the minutes as this mentally child form of his badly hurt lad latches onto Ronea’s nipple and the only comfort he’s able to reach out for right now, aside from the stuffed bunny. Ronea lets out a small hiss and then closes his eyes in exasperation.  
  
“Should’ve given the meds before leaving…”  
“Aye, we should’ve…”  
  
They fucked that part up and now they’re paying the price. They’re not blaming themselves as they’re looking at each other. That’s a good thing, Filip thinks. Ronea is just petting the lad softly, holding him just like a nursing wee one and accepts the place he currently has to go to, in order to bring the lad back.  
  
“Sweet angel, you’re gonna feel better soon, Papi promises… Everything’s gonna be alright…”  
  
Sometimes it’s okay to lie and this is one of those occasions. Juice is too small to grasp reality to that extent right now. Time and place is completely fucked up and so Ronea can and must play the role of the ever safe and secure Mother who can make everything that hurts go away. It’s not a deceit, it’s a temporary safety net, preventing Juice’s tormented heart from hitting the ground and break. In that role, Ronea asks for the bag and the blanket he’s stuffed in there along with what seems like too many other things to even be possible to fit.  
  
All Filip can do, after handing it to him, is wait.


	24. Ronea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daddy teaches Papi a lesson in the patented Filip Telford way. Oh, and Juice is, of course, asleep.

”I’m sorry, Filip.”  
”What for, lovey?”  
”I was disrespectful by the road.”  
“Don’ even start, Ronea Telford-Tully. Ye were handling Juice while he was latched onto ye an’ I know he could’ve bitten ye had ye forced’im off, so _no bloody guilt._ Am I making myself clear, husband?”  
  
Ronea almost jumped at the force in Filip’s voice and just nodded with widened eyes.  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
“Lovey, c’mere…”  
  
He walked over immediately, watching his strict husband’s face with respect, not fear, but the voice had been a little stronger, more stearn than usual and Ronea was too tired to read it as well as normally. He looked up, only to seeFilip’s face soften instantly.  
  
“Ronea, I’ve scared ye again… God, I’m sorry, lovey. Can I…”  
  
Ronea didn’t let him finish and simply leaned into him to be held. He snuck his own arms around Filip’s waist and nuzzled his neck.  
  
“You didn’t, baby. You brought me back before I went too deep. Thank you.”  
“Still, I sounded a wee bit too domineering.”  
“And as you should know better than anyone, Filip Telford, _I like it_ when you’re domineering, especially when I’m slipping down that road. Now shut up about this self-blaming and be sensible.”  
“Yes, ma’m. But I still scared ye a bit, unintentionally, an’ I should know better so, I’m sorry, Ronea.”  
“And I forgive you, even if I don’t really think there’s anything to forgive.”  
“Thank ye, lovey. Now, our lil’ one is sleeping an’ we need to talk.”  
“I’m fine, Filip, I promise.”  
“Do ye need to start this conversation over my lap, husband? Because tha’s always an option if ye’re not ready to listen. Ye know ye can ask me for it if ye’ll need a spanking.”  
  
Could, yes. Needed to, perhaps. Would, no way. Spankings felt good _afterwards_ , not while being given and the element of shame and weakness was always there, putting Ronea in that uncertain and vulnerable overlap from internal to external pain that he just _had_ to trust Filip to turn in the right direction.  
  
Ronea felt his fists balling and his breath speeding up.  
  
“I will but I wont.”  
  
Not asking for it, just telling his husband the truth without getting explicit and leaving the decision to him. Because Ronea didn’t _want_ that choice. He didn’t want to have the possibility to say no to Filip in this, he wanted to be told what to do, fight the urge to rebel and then be forced to, not by threats, violence or manipulation, but the shear need, to obey the only person he trusted to this extent. Giving in to that need was what he’d signed up for when they wrote their very private marriage agreement, and right now they had only recently started a limited period of complete obedience for both of them to resettle into their respective roles.  
  
Filip placed his palms onto Ronea’s cheeks and gave a soft kiss on his forehead.  
  
“Livingroom, lovey. Now.”  
  
The order was gentle, but there was still a sting of resistance when Ronea obeyed and he didn’t like it. He felt out of his role, out of place and that wasn’t a good feeling at all. It sent doubts of a kind that was infectious and pulled him back into old wounds, making them itch and raising the need to scratch them, preferably bloody.  
  
He didn’t _have_ to obey. Legally, he could tell his husband to go fuck himself and never take another order or spanking from him ever again. He could, on their soon up-coming, reoccuring six month evaluation, refuse and be… what? Free? _From what?_  
  
Ronea felt himself shaking with contradictory feelings, they were overpowering him by the second and when he kneeled in his usual position by the couch, he was dizzy and sick to his stomach. He was – no, that was impossible, he never felt… not with Filip… Not _of_ Filip.  
  
Scared. He was scared.  
  
The couch shifted and he heard Filip say something about pants and panties, the sound of him patting his knee. Ronea obeyed automatically. It was an instinct by now and he dropped his pants, folded down his panties and laid across his husband’s lap, angling his caged cock, not even looking at the instrument and when the first strike fell, Ronea buried himself into the pillow to block a shout.  
  
Filip had chosen the birch twigs, still fresh and flexible from staying soaked in the bucket in his cabinet. Those things _hurt_ in a whole different way than the paddles and the humiliation was greater too. Filip delivered a dozen good ones from it before he stopped and rubbed Ronea’s shoulder.  
  
“I knew ye needed a spanking, Ronea. I dinnae ask ye to get yer permission or advice on it, an’ why’s tha’?”  
“Because you don’t need to ask me, sir.”  
“Why?”  
“I… I already gave my consent, when we married and I promised to obey you, sir.”  
“Aye, tha’s righ’, husband. An’ do I, according to our contract, the one we both formed an’ signed willingly together, even need a reason apart from jus’ _wanting_ to spank ye, to put ye over my knee?”  
“No, sir, you don’t.”  
“Tha’s righ’, Ronea. I don’t, but I still always have one, don’ I?”  
“Yes, sir, you do.”  
“Good. Hold tha’ thought.”  
  
It was difficult to stay still today, Ronea hadn’t tasted the birch rod for a while and he was still fighting the urge to leave Filip’s lap, to simply refuse to obey and he whimpered, louder than he’d expected. Filip stopped again and placed his hand on the small of his back, not pressing down, just resting against it.  
  
“I know ye’ve been fighting ever since we left the clinic, lovey. Ye forget tha’ I can read ye better than myself by now an’ tha’ I can smell a husband in distress half a world away. I asked if ye needed a spanking, because I already knew ye did an’ I wanted to know if ye’d caught up yer need as well.”  
  
A new round of the rod and by God it stung. Ronea panted into the pillow, clutching it hard and he knew he’d have a hard time sitting for days because Filip had only started. Another break, a soft rubbing between his shoulders.  
  
“Today, after we left the clinic an’ stopped by the road, we all went through something quite hard, dinnae we, Ronea?”  
“Yes, sir.”  
“Juice had an accident an’ we had to change him an’ then wha’ happened?”  
“He… he got a panic attack, sir.”  
“A panic attack stemming from…?”  
“A flashback, sir.”  
“Correct. Can ye tell me wha’ caused tha’ flashback?”  
  
Ronea thought about it, it was easier to focus in this position, especially with the snug chastity keeping him from getting a full erection, but he still couldn’t answer and he shook his head.  
  
“I can’t, sir. I’m sorry, but I can’t and I’m not trying to hide anyth… Ow!”  
  
His poor ass cursed him right now, because Filip placed six swift, hard strikes in a row, leaving Ronea whimpering. Then the rubbing hand came back.  
  
“Breathe, Ronea. In an’ out, slowly… Tha’s better. Did I tell ye to explain or make excuses for Juice’s flashback?”  
“No, sir, you didn’t.”  
“Then wha’ did I ask?”  
“If… If I knew what caused it, sir.”  
“Exactly. An’ in this house, a question like tha’ is not a test or challenge, Ronea. I wasn’t trying to corner or interrogate ye, was I?”  
“No, sir.”  
“Then wha’ was I doing?”  
“You… you just wanted to find out if I know what triggered Juice.”  
“Aye, an’ do ye?”  
  
Ronea shook his head, feeling tears forming.  
  
“No, sir, I don’t.”  
“An’ is tha’ something ye _should_ be able to do in tha’ moment?”  
“No, sir, it’s not.”  
“An’ why’s tha’?”  
“Because I’m… I’’m not a mind reader and it’s not… reasonable to expect that of anyone.”  
“Good lad. Hold tha’ thought.”  
  
His skin was on fire, because Filip wasn’t lenient and the angry, wound up little ball of stress, that reminded of a cornered prey against the anxiety, hissing at anything approaching, even the helping hand, ready to bite it even to protect itself, stopped hissing and started to let just a little bit of it’s guard down.  
  
He was crying already and Filip paused to rub the small of his back.  
  
“I know how uncomfortable ye felt when Juice latched onto ye, darling, an’ I wan’ ye to jus’ listen now an’ not answer me yet.”  
  
He petted Ronea’s shoulders again.  
  
“Ye felt really uncomfortable, lovey, an’ I also know tha’ ye felt guilty an’ hurt an’ very exposed. I could tell it by jus’ looking at yer eyes. Ye were in a very stressful, unexpected situation an’ how did ye react? Answer me, please.”  
  
Ronea sniffled, he was still very stressed and the shame made his face hot.  
  
“I… I let him… nurse…”  
  
Expressing it in words made him cry more and Filip placed five more spanks with the rod before leaning down to kiss Ronea’s damp neck.  
  
“Ronea, I’ve seen ye deal with yer PTSD for almost twentyfive years an’ sometimes I don’ think I tell ye often enough how proud o’ an’ insanely impressed I am by ye, lovey. Ye _never_ give up, _mo chridhe*_ , ye’re fighting every battle with all ye’ve got an’ in tha’ moment, ye made a choice based on yer experience with both yer own an’ Juice’s PTSD.”  
“But I… I didn’t want to, not like that, not again and then… then I snapped at you.”  
“Is tha’ why ye think I’m giving ye this spanking, lovey? As a reprimand for snapping at me in the woods?”  
“No… not _only_ that…”  
“Then tell me wha’ else ye think lead ye here.”  
“I was rude to you, Filip. I didn’t show respect.”  
  
Filip sighed and kissed his neck again.  
  
”No, lovey, ye weren’t rude or disrespectful, at least not on purpose. Ye were caught up in a _really_ bad thought spin an’ pretty much ready to hurt yerself, had I not stopped tha’ train. I’m still sorry about the way I had to do it, but I could tell nothing else would’ve made ye pause. Am I right, Ronea?”  
  
It took time to answer, because he was crying so much now.  
  
“Ye-yes, sir.”  
  
Filip was right. He _had_ been on the verge of wanting to hurt himself like he’d done in the past and Ronea was shaking, not from tension but the slowly release of it over his husband’s lap. He was sore and still tense, but he needed something else than the rod now and he lifted his face from the tear soaked pillow.  
  
“C-can I please ask you something, sir?”  
”Of course, my love.”  
“I will submit to any instrument of your choosing for the rest of this session without any protest, but… can I, for a little while, have your hand, sir?”  
“If tha’s wha’ ye need, I’m happy to oblige, _mo chridhe*._ ”  
  
The hand wasn’t for punishment and while the birch rod could be, that item wasn’t strictly for such spankings either, but could be used for any reason. Any reason Filip deemed it fitting. That didn’t mean the large, callous palm of his was light or easy to take by any means. Not when he used enough force and he definitely did.  
  
Ronea sobbed, there were words of some sort and Filip stopped again.  
  
“What, baby? Tell me was on yer mind, sweet darlin’. I’m here for ye, lovey, ye’re safe with me an’ I can take yer feelings, no matter how they look like.”  
“I… I know it’s not my fault, Filip, I understand that again now, but I feel so… disgusting for not just letting him, you know, but I actually _initiated_ it. I can’t help it, Filip, but I just _feel_ like a creep.”  
  
He got six hard swats and then some more rubs on his lower back.  
  
“Lovey, we don’ punish feelings in this family. I’m very grateful tha’ ye told me this, because I could see ye were not just stressed out an’ overwhelmed. I cannae tell ye wha’ to feel or not, we don’ control tha’ any more than Juice can control his. T’is how we try to _handle_ those feelings tha’ matters, baby. _Feeling_ like a creep, doesn’t mean ye _are_ one an’ while I cannae make tha’ feeling go away no matter how much I wish I could, I can help ye through it.”  
  
Now Filip just petted his back and Ronea kept crying, letting himself be soothed by the lecture.  
  
“I’m not gonnae let ye hide away with these feelings, Ronea. Tha’s not who I am, t’is not who we are, lovey, an’ I will never ever punish ye for feelings because, as ye said yerself a moment ago, ye cannae help wha’ ye feel. No one can. Not me, not ye an’ not Juice. Today was a rough day but we made it through an’ I dinnae see a husband or lil’ one acting out or being disobedient. I saw a lad struggling to handle a ride to an unfamiliar place, then with even entering an’ not to mention meeting an’ communicating with a stranger. He did so well an’ seeing him with tha’ pitbull… I thought I was gonnae start bawling on spot.”  
  
Ronea smlied through his tears.  
  
“Me too.”  
  
Filip gave small pets on his neck again.  
  
“So, do ye agree with me tha’ ye don’ deserve a _punishment_ an’ tha’ ye need this spanking to resettle an’ put a stop to those unhealthy thoughts ’bout ye being disgusting an’ rude, when ye’re anything but?”  
“I agree logically, sir, but… but my feelings aren’t there yet.”  
“God, I’m so proud o’ ye for telling me straight away, lovey. I’m not gonnae give forgiveness, since ye’ve not done anything wrong, not even when ye snapped, because it’s clear to me tha’ ye were too trapped in the distress to fully decide on how to express yerself in tha’ moment. I’m not spanking ye as a punishment, but for emotional release and resettlement, baby. Ye understand tha’?”  
“I understand and I trust you to bring me where I need to be, Filip, in any way you decide to do it.”  
“Thank ye, dear husband. An’ we’re also not gonnae discuss today’s events further today. Juice will probably be in an’ outta sleep all day an’ night. How would ye like for us to use tha’ time to resettle some more, lovey?”  
  
Ronea took a deep breath, squirming against his husband’s thigh.  
  
“I don’t want a choice now, at all, Filip.”  
“Ye’re asking me to manhandle ye, Ronea?”  
”Or not. Leave me like this or put me in chastity or fuck me or make me cut another rod, just… let me go through our current agreement in full… Take my choice away, _I beg you_ …”  
  
The rest of the spanking was short and Ronea barely felt anything but the relaxation spreading through his body and how hard the loss of tension made him. Filip then got him back down on his knees, not letting him cry on his lap, and walked to the hallway. He came back with his MC kutte over the shirt, opened his own jeans and sat back down on the couch, spreading his thighs wide.  
  
He searched in one of the inside pockets on the kutte and pulled out a tiny bottle with lube. Ronea watched, hardening even more, as Filip folded the hem of his boxers and took his half hard cock out, stroking it almost lazily to full erection.  
  
“I will take yer choice away, baby, but I demand ye to tell me if ye _want_ my cock right now.”  
“Please, sir. I really do.”  
“An’ where do ye wan’ it?”  
“Up my ass, sir. Please.”  
“Ye wannae come too?”  
“Yes, sir. I would like that very much, but that’s not my choice.”  
“Ye’re righ’, an’ tha’ wont happen now, sweet husband. I’m gonnae give ge my cock, since ye’re asking so nicely, being such a good, meak man for me, but I’m choosing not to let ye come. Ye can either have my cock an’ not come, or not having it at all tonight.”  
“I want to… be your meak husband for you, taking your cock if it pleases you, being good for you and then wait patiently for when you want me to come, either it’s tonight or not until this agreement is over, sir.”  
  
Filip smiled, not a wicked or teasing one, but full of love and adoration and he took Ronea’s chin in his hand, bending down to kiss him deep. When they parted, Ronea’s husband was blushing and his eyes half-closed.  
  
“What good deeds did I do to earn a man like you…”  
“Those who don’t go unpunished, sir?”  
  
There was a chuckle and Filip grabbed his hips, eyes bright and all the little lines of worries evened out.  
  
”Well then… C’mere, _Papi_ … Come sink tha’ red arse down on Daddy’s cock…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *my heart


	25. Juice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank goodness Papi was satisfied last night, since he's gotten himself a toddler form of Juice this morning. Juice is quite confused by it too.

”Gog! Goggy, Juice has goggy.”  
”Good morning to you too, baby boy. Did you sleep well, angel?”  
“Goggy. Goggy, Papi, Juice has?”  
  
Something wasn’t right today. He felt like he’d slept far too long, his body heavy and brain clouded and _fuck_ , it was difficult to talk… The onesie was too warm and Papi was still in bed. Juice sucked on his pacifier, tugging at Papi’s night shirt.  
  
“Juice go goggy.”  
  
Papi yawned and kissed his forehead.  
  
“Soon, baby boy. But we must get dressed and eat breakfast first.”  
“Must not.”  
”Must too.”  
“Must not!”  
“Must too, my little pup. You didn’t plan on eating Yara’s breakfast, did you?”  
  
Juice scrunched his nose and giggled. Papi was silly.  
  
“Goggy food, Juice says yikes, Papi.”  
“Thank goodness, because Papi only has porridge and raspberries today. Not a single piece of kibble in my pantry, baby boy, so before we go see Yara, Papi’s good boy must have some human breakfast.”  
“Juice go goggy?”  
“Oh yes, when Juice has had his diaper changed, some day clothes on and finished his breakfast with Daddy and Papi. Then we’ll go see doggy. Okay?”  
“Okay, Papi.”   
“Good boy. Come, let Papi clean your bum, sweetheart.”  
  
That didn’t require talking or that much movement and Juice waddled with Papi and Mr. Bunny to the bathroom. He still had his pacifier too and sucked a bit more on it as Papi took off the pajamas and then the messy diaper.  
  
“Looks like you still have a little unruly tummy, baby boy. Are you sore?”  
“Is not, Papi. Juice go goggy?”  
“Lord almighty, yes, Juice will see the doggy today and Papi and Daddy are coming with him, but first things first, sweet boy. Pull your legs up some more, please.”  
  
It was always nice to get washed by Papi. He had so soft hands and talked a whole bunch of stuff one didn’t have to answer and was soon clean, dry and safe in a fresh diaper before Papi proceeded to clean his face, hands and armpits. Juice squirmed a bit.  
  
“Juice not _that_ dirty, Papi.”  
“That’s because Papi washes his boy properly. Be good, sweetheart or you’ll sit in the naugthy corner. Look, all done with the washing. Now lets find your clothes.”  
  
It took _ages_ for Papi to get him into cargo pants, socks and t-shirt and as soon as he was done, Juice rose from the mat and rushed back into bed, curling up next to Daddy, who was still sleeping.  
  
“Daddy? _Daddy?_ ”  
“Mhm…”  
“Gog. See goggy. Juice go goggy?”  
”Aye, laddie. Juice… we all, will go and see the doggy today.”  
  
Daddy yawned and stretched, catching Juice in his arms and hugged him.  
  
“Papi already changed an’ dressed ye?”  
“Uh-huh. See goggy now, Daddy?”  
“First thing after breakfast, lil’ one. Daddy needs his coffee before he can take one step outside the house. Ye go down with Mr. Bunny an’ keep Papi company while I get dressed, alright?”  
“Okay, Daddy.”  
  
Daddy kissed his hair.  
  
“Good lad. Now go to Papi, lovey.”  
  
Down the kitchen, Papi was busy at the stove with something stirring in a pan. Juice slid on his knitted socks to the stove and sank down by Papi’s legs. He tugged at Papi’s pants and the man looked down smiling. Juice took his pacifier out.  
  
“Gog? Juice see goggy?”  
  
Papi chuckled and stroked Juice’s hair.  
  
“I think there’s a little boy in Papi’s kitchen who really likes dogs.”  
“Gog! Not gogs.”  
“Ah, yes. One dog, a special one.”  
  
Juice nodded.  
  
“What was her name again, baby boy? Lara? Tara?”  
”No, Papi! Yara. Goggy _Yara!_ ”  
“Ah yes, silly Papi. What do think Yara’s doing right now, Juicy? Except waiting for the best Juicyboy ever?”  
  
Papi was silly. There was only one Juicyboy, so you couldn’t choose the best one. Or the worst, which was a comforting thought. Juice thought about the black pitbull.  
  
“P-playing, Papi?”  
“Yeah, I bet she’s an early riser, that one. Lots of energy, don’t you think?”  
“Juice doesn’t.”  
“You’re tired, sweetheart?”  
“Uh-huh. Is, Papi.”  
  
Something didn’t feel quite right with his body or mind today. Papi looked down from his pot with a concerned little smile.  
  
“You look a little wornout in general, baby boy. Yesterday was rough…”  
“Goggy? Juice see goggy?”  
  
Papi stopped in his stirring, frowning at first but then he nodded and his kind smile was back.  
  
“Yes, sweet darling. Juice will see doggy. Sit down at the table, please, and Papi will serve you some cream of wheat with peaches. First breakfast, _then_ doggy.”  
“First breakfast, then goggy. Papi says.”  
“That’s right, baby boy.”  
”Daddy says?”  
”I’m actually one hundred percent certain that Daddy says so too, so move your butt to the chair, angel. The sooner you start on your breakfast, the sooner you get to see Yara.”  
  
That was a very good point, actually, and Juice crawled up from the floor, slow as he felt, and sat down at his usual chair to grab the spoon.


	26. Filip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daddy realises he's fucked up a bit...

Looking over his little two man flock this morning, Filip immediately knew something was off. Not with his husband, thank God, who seemed completely settled back after the spanking and talking last night, not to mention the sex. He was probably quite sore, but Filip knew his husband and that the lingering sting was most likely good as a lingering reminder of who was in charge of what in this house. Sometimes Filip couldn’t help but feeling a little envious of Ronea for that ability to let go.  
  
While spanking his husband most certainly made Filip feel very good and resettled, the experience was almost always more intense and satisfying for Ronea. It eased his tension in a way massages, talking, sex, relaxing music, weed, booze or vaccations never could and to be given the trust and responsibility to help his husband to reach that relief, was probably one of the most beautiful things in being Ronea’s spouse and top. Not only did he move so much lighter and softer, his eyes were bright despite the slight sleepishness and his face had a healthy colour.  
  
No, Ronea was fine within himself, that much was clear, but Juice seemed… like a little toddler. He talked like one and he handled his spoon like one too. Could it be the meds? Filip had to think. He’d given the prescribed dose, right? Or had he?  
  
Drops were not the same as pills and Filip moved from his porridge to check the small bottle in the diaper bag. Ronea looked strangely at him when he rose, but didn’t say anything and went back to feed Juicy who once again had dropped his spoon in the bowl.  
  
They kept a little strip of tape on the bottle to keep track and Filip groaned when he saw the marking in comparison to the amount of medicine left.  
  
“Mary, Mother o’ Christ…”  
  
He’d given _three times_ the dosis. Three bloody times. This wasn’t just a clumsy, embarressing rookie mistake, this was outrageous. Juice’s set dosis wasn’t the highest at all, so the amount he’d been given yesterday was still within the maximum dosis, in fact, it was the bloody maximum dosis and yes, the situation had been really chaotic and bad by the road, but now Filip felt like hitting something, preferably himself.  
  
Well, at least there was a perfectly logical explanation for Juice’s sudden and extreme weariness, the struggles with moving and walking. It also explained the lack of lingering worry the lad mostly expressed the day after a huge panic attack. He was still so affected by the medicine he simply wasn’t capable of worrying at all, but he very clearly hadn’t forgotten where they’d been yesterday or even the name of the ”goggy” he’d met.  
  
“What’s wrong, baby?”  
  
Ronea looked at him from the porridge he tried to help Juice with and Filip sighed but smiled.  
  
“Nothing that’s dangerous or even that worrying, actually. I’ll explain later, darlin’, but I promise ye tha’ ye can stop worrying ’bout wha’ I’m pretty sure ye’re thinking o’ righ’ now.”  
“Sure?”  
  
This wasn’t Ronea questioning his authority, but mama bear rightfully worried about his cub and Filip walked over to kiss his cheek.  
  
“Absolutely. Ye’ll probably whack my head when I tell ye, but I swear, darlin’, ye can realx.”  
“Okay, baby. If you say so.”  
  
Still, not doubtful, and Filip kissed him again. He really had the most amazing husband.  
  
“Can I serve ye some coffee, since ye have yer hands full, lovey?”  
“Yes, please. I think I left my brain on the pillow so I’ll need all the black magic I can swallow.”  
  
That had Juice giggle and Ronea smiled at him.  
  
“Do you think Yara drinks coffee, baby boy?”  
”Papi, you silly!”  
  
Juice giggled more and Filip couldn’t help but laughing too while Ronea shook his head in amused exasperation.  
  
“I think there’s a risk of soggy cereals and poorly made tea for breakfast the rest of the week, boys. Be nice to Mama Bear or he’ll go to his pit. Please, bring me that coffee asap, baby.”  
  
Ronea would kill him later, better come prepared.


	27. Ronea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More re-establishing of roles, even if Mama Bear is not to be messed around with.

He would’ve whacked Filip’s head had they not had their special agreement. Not that Filip would’ve held it against him. Giving Juice three times the set dosis was simply reckless and stupid and Ronea was not one to pretend otherwise.  
  
“With all due respect, Filip Telford, that’s the kind of mistake you’re supposed to be _too damn professional_ to even make in your _sleep_.”  
  
His husband blushed and looked extremely embarressed.  
  
”I know, lovey. I don’ know why I dinnae look properly.”  
  
Ronea folded his arms, holding his second, half-emptied cup of coffee.  
  
“But I do. You were too focused on the fact that Juice was latching onto me and how it affected me, to pay attention.”  
“Ye’re right. I’m so sorry, Ronea.”  
”I was about to freak out, thinking he was back in a real psychosis again, Filip.”  
“God… I know I fucked up badly, lovey, but it wont happen again an’ I will make it up to both o’ ye, I promise.”  
  
He knew that. Of course Filip would make it up to them, it wasn’t about that. This special agreement required a lot of work and trust and now, that trust wasn’t broken but it was a little bit nagged and in a situation where certainty and control was needed more than ever.   
  
Juice was napping already, no wonder, and would probably be cranky when they left, even if it was to see ”goggy”. Ronea sighed and rubbed a hand over his face.  
  
“How long until he can walk properly? I mean, more than a few steps to the car and inside the kennel?”  
”A few hours, maybe.”  
“You know we can’t let him nap after lunch today. He’s gonna be cranky as hell and we still don’t know how much he’s affected from the attack. Good Lord, I wish he could handle a spanking…”  
“Aye, but he’s too little. Little Juice already had far too many spankings an’ we cannae make’im think we’re suddenly okay with spanking wee ones.”  
“I know, I wasn’t suggesting that, Filip. Just… You think I could give him just a little bit of coffee?”  
“Some caffein would work wonders, but he wont like the taste now.”  
“What if I mix it with hot chocolate?”  
  
Filip brushed Ronea’s shoulder.  
  
“Ye tell me how to make it, darlin’. I know kitchen is yer area, but I think this is within the acceptable boundaries o’wha’ I can an’ cannae do, especially when ye’re this knackered. I fucked up with meds, so I’m gonnae try an’ unfuck this, okay.”  
“That wasn’t a question, right?”  
“No, ma’m, it wasn’t. Look, we have almost fortyfive minutes until we have to leave, so ye grab yer knitting or a book an’ head outside. It is wha’ it is with the meds now, so ye’re gonnae use my fuck-up to get a lil’ Ronea time before we leave.”  
“Okay.”  
“Excuse me?”  
”Yes, sir. Sorry, I didn’t mean to be disrespectful, Filip.”  
”I know, lovey. Book, knitting or iPad or napping, outside. Now.”  
”Yes, sir.”  
  
The temporary agreement mostly meant more work for Filip, but that didn’t mean it was easy to resettle as a sub either. Ronea went to get his needlework basket with the knitting and embroidery he’d not worked on for a while and sauntered out to the backyard and the rattan chair under the huge parasol.   
  
Letting go of the breakfast dishes and not sitting like a hawk over Juice while he was napping, normally had been out of the question and Filip wouldn’t have dared to challenge “mama bear” on it. But they were in resettling mode and any attempt to protest or even try to negotiate when Filip went with _ye’re gonnae_ would end up in a very non-funny kind of spanking. _  
_  
They’d not had a round with this agreement since before meeting Juice and that was a very long time ago. Far too long. Usually, they made this resettling routine every three months but only for a week or so and that was quite strenuous already. Two weeks were twice as much and while balancing it with Juice’s needs, the experience was quite different this time. It wasn’t meant to “put Ronea in place” though, at least not in the way it might look like for an outsider.  
  
Ronea adjusted the front of his pants a bit and kept on with his knitting. He’d not been allowed to come last night and to make matters worse – or better, in this case – Filip had plugged him right after, to keep _his_ cum inside Ronea’s ass until bedtime. The loss of the plug now, along with the snug chastity and his sensitive buttocks gave him a feeling of being completely safe. The signs of Filip’s absolute love and care, of the sincerity in his vows and commitment as the head of their family, no matter if they were two or three people in it.  
  
All Ronea had to focus on right now, was to be a good submissive husband, trustful, pliant and obedient. And at the moment, that meant remaining under the parasol until it was time to leave. Ronea put the knitting down, leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. 


	28. Juice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Humans don't pick animals. It's the animals who approve.

”Look, there she is, baby boy. Just as we promised.”  
  
Juice barely heard and he let go of Papi’s hand to lower down on the ground. Yara was in a leash today as well and the woman holding and approaching with her was the same as yesterday.  
  
“Good  morning, Juice! Look who’s here to see you, Yara!”  
“M-morning, Yara.”  
  
The stutter was annoying, so was the weakness in his knees, but sitting down meant he was in eye level with the black pitbull. Her eyes were yellow and to others she may look a bit… wild, perhaps, but to Juice, it didn’t feel like that. She was waving her tail and when Juice started crying, she licked his face and then put her paws onto his shoulders.  
  
Miss Gilani stood nearby with Daddy and Papi.  
  
“She’s trained to comfort when she sees tears, Juice. You can hug her back if you want to.”  
  
_If_ he wanted to? He could sit with her like this the whole day. And night and tomorrow too. She was warm and smelled good for a dog, fur soft under his hands and she was so big, so beautiful, almost like a black panther. And the tears vanished into her fur.  
  
“Y-you remember m-me, girl? S’ me, Juice, f-from yes-yesterday…”  
  
Not that she could answer with words, but it felt like she remembered him. And she _liked_ him. Animals didn’t lie and weren’t as difficult to read as humans. And if they bit you, the reason was a lot easier to find out.  
  
Miss Gilani approached now, she looked pretty friendly, actually, and she squatted next to Juice and Yara.  
  
“You look so happy to see each other, Juice.”  
  
Juice nodded. He felt safe enough talking to Yara, but the transition from talking like a toddler earlier this morning to a grown-up or at least _not_ a toddler took time and was pretty scary too. Miss Gilani petted Yara’s head.  
  
“She looked sad when you left, you know. No one has picked her before and you should’ve seen how excited she got when Cecile came for her this morning. Normally, she doesn’t get out of her little yard at this time and instead she gets to see the other dogs go while she’s left alone until one of our walkers takes her out.”  
  
Juice frowned.  
  
“But… didn’t p-pick her…”  
“Sure you did.”  
“Nuh-uh.”  
  
He shook his head while petting the beautiful creature.  
  
“Hu-humans d-don’t pick… Yara _a-a-approved…_ ”  
  
Yara waved her tail and licked his face as if confirming and Juice hugged her again.  
  
“N-no one e-else?”  
“No one else what, Juice?”  
“Yara n-no one else hu-human…?”  
”No, Juice. If it works out well for you two working together, she will not work with any other human for that time.”  
  
Time was a thing Juice had no good concept of now and the reassurance that Yara was his when he was here was enough. Miss Gilani nodded towards the garden.  
  
”I think Yara would like to go for a little walk with you, Juice. How would you like that?”  
“N-not good l-legs t-t-today, M-miss.”  
“We have wheelchairs to borrow, Juice. Papi and Daddy can come along and Cecile brings Yara with you. Would that be nice, you think?”  
“S-sounds g-good, M-miss.”  
“You might see other people in the garden, and other dogs, but everyone of them are service dogs just like Yara and they wont bother each other.”  
  
Now Papi lowered down to look at him.  
  
“You okay with that, Juicy?”  
“O-okay.”  
“Okay?”  
”Y-you coming t-too?”  
”Of course, baby boy. You, me and Daddy, Yara, Miss Gilani and Cecile.” 


	29. Filip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yara is helping, but healing up is difficult.

The wheelchair they’d borrowed from the facility had been abandoned in a little arbour in the garden and Juice was now messing about with Yara on the grass. He was stiff and clearly a little bit in pain still, but although he was too weak to walk yet, let alone running, he moved around on his knees, playing catch with a confidence Filip hadn’t seen in a very long time.  
  
“C’mere, girl! C’mere, yeah, that’s it. Good girl, Yara! Stay. Stay. Catch! _Good_ girl!”  
  
Yara was completely focused on Juice and wasn’t rough at all, letting the lad control the game and didn’t care about Filip or Ronea or even the two staff members. She was keeping watch though, but merely noticing the surroundings without getting distracted. When Juice made a move that was a bit too sharp for his sore body, letting out a little hiss, Yara immediately stopped playing and came close to comfort the lad.  
  
“It’s amazing…”  
  
Ronea’s mumble was very low, but Filip heard him and put an arm around his husband.  
  
“Aye, t’is quite remarkable… So strange no one’s picked her before…”  
“Or him.”  
  
To be fair, _they_ had, but Filip understood what Ronea meant. No one had picked Juice and _only_ Juice before, but Yara wasn’t at all interested in anyone but the lad or, when hearing commands, the staff and especially Cecile. The fact that she didn’t focus on anyone or anything else, made Juice a lot less nervous. He didn’t look around at all except to follow the pitbull’s movements in their game.  
  
Honestly though, Filip thought it looked a little too much for the lad but before he could intervene, Yara had slowed down by herself, clearly catching up with Juice’s needs. Miss Gilani came forward to the lad.  
  
“I think a little break would we good for you now, Juice. How about we go to the therapy room we went to yesterday to wind down at bit? Yara is coming with us, of course.”  
  
Juice looked at Filip and he nodded, confirming it was okay. That seemed to be good enough and Juice nodded at Miss Gilani.  
  
“O-okay, m-miss.”  
  
Filip smiled at him, wanting to reward him for being so polite despite the worry. The pitbull felt Juice’s slight distress and came to sit next to him, nuzzling his shoulder. This was her job, after all. Sensing her human’s anxiety in whatever form it showed and make sure he wasn’t left alone to face it.  
  
From a viewer’s prospective, Filip thought it looked like the mere fact that Yara wasn’t a human, helped Juice a great deal. His face was different when only looking at the pitbull, less apprehensive and questioning. With a little sting of sadness, Filip noted that his sweet lad even seemed more trusting with the pitbull than with his daddies. Logically, that wasn’t strange at all, of course. Juice had what could only be described as a hellish history with human relationships while it had been a dog – a pitbull, actually – who’d shown him unconditional love.  
  
It hadn’t been quite the same with Ronea’s cat, but there were still similarities. Before the bastard Aaron had killed the poor creature, Filip had seen how Leah had been able to comfort Ronea on many occasions by simply curling up in his lap or next to him on the bed or couch. If an untrained cat had managed to lower Ronea’s stress and anxiety during that extremely difficult time, then this black pitbull surely would be great for Juice.  
  
When Juice, with a little help from Filip, got back up on his feet he wasn’t as stiff as before but clearly tired and Ronea had to bring the wheelchair. Juice grimazed but put a hand up when Filip stepped close.  
  
“Th-think I can… make it by… m-myself, D-daddy.”  
“Careful, baby boy.”  
  
Ronea looked a little worried when Juice slowly rose, holding onto the wheelchair for support. It was good that the lad wanted to try, but by the time he was on his feet and turned around to sit, he was flushed and panting, hands shaking and Cecile squatted down before him.  
  
“Juice?”  
“Yeah… Yes, m-miss?”  
“I can tell that you and Yara are working out great together, but she is first of all your help and it’s _your_ needs that win out, okay? Did you notice how Yara slowed down after a while?”  
“Uhm… N-no, not really, miss.”  
“You don’t have to use titles with me, Juice. Cecile is fine.”  
“O-okay… Cecile.”  
  
Cecile smiled and then petted Yara’s head. The pitbull had already laid her head down onto Juice’s thighs and the instructor scratched behind her ear.  
  
“Yara spotted your weariness before you felt it, Juice, and that’s what’s so great with service dogs. They can sense their owner’s upcoming anxiety, flashback or, for those trained to work with dibetics, low blood sugar. In your case, Yara picked up that you were getting too worked up and had to slow down to not getting yourself injured.”  
“Injured? But… we were just playing?”  
“You were and that was fine, but then you started panting and got stiffer in your movements.”  
  
The lad frowned.  
  
“I… I actually didn’t notice…”  
  
Cecile smiled again.  
  
“And that’s what Yara’s trained to do, Juice. To spot the signs you might not catch up in time. See how she’s resting her head onto your thigh?”  
“Yeah.”  
“She’s not doing that to get cuddles, but to comfort _you._ Not that she doesn’t benefit from the cuddles too, but her focus is and should always be _you_ and _your_ needs.”  
  
Juice seemed to have a little difficulty digesting that but Cecile rose now and nodded at the building.  
  
“You’ve only been here less than an hour today, Juice, and there’s still plenty of time left before it’s time to leave. You’ll get to play outside with Yara again next time, but for now she’s showing you that it’s actually time to rest.”  
  
The instructor was firm but kind and very calm. Juice might not want to stop playing, but even without his tops confirming he needed to, he stopped and looked at Yara. The pitbull was still resting her head onto his thigh and her paws laid in a rather protective way, one across his legs and the other around his butt on the ground, almost like a hug.  
  
Grounding, comforting, reassuring. Juice’s no doubt aching body showed an ever so small relaxation, barely noticable, but then his face turned upset and he looked at Filip and Ronea with watering eyes.  
  
“I… J-juice w-wants Daddy and-and-and P-papi…”


	30. Ronea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Papi can do several things at once. For example, read Winnie the Pooh aloud and think about das, dads and foster parents.

“’Shall I put my umbrella up?’ you said. ‘Yes, but wait a moment. We must be practical. The important bee to deceive is the Queen Bee. Can you see which is the Queen Bee from down there?’   
‘No.’  ‘A pity. Well, now, if you walk up and down with your umbrella, saying, 'Tut-tut, it looks like rain,' I shall do what I can by singing a little Cloud Song, such as a cloud might sing. . . . Go!’ So, while you walked up and down and wondered if it would rain, Winnie-the-Pooh sang this song:  _How sweet to be a Cloud, floating in the Blue! Every little cloud, always sings aloud…_ ”  
  
The small therapy room was one of several of the same kind, Ronea had noticed when passing down the corridor and they reminded far more of those in a children’s ward than he’d expected. Age regression wasn’t the most common diagnosis, but the home maker supposed one didn’t have to need pacifiers and diapers to find comfort in bright colours and cuddly things.  
  
They were sitting on the floor, or a mattress with several pillows and blankets, much like Juice’s cuddly corner back home, and the boy was resting in Filip’s lap with the pacifier in his mouth, Mr. Bunny tucked in his arms and Yara close.  
  
Miss Gilani was there as well, sitting in the background and observing, taking some notes and Ronea couldn’t help but feeling just a little bit watched, as if put through an evaluation. Which, when come thinking about it, he was. Reading aloud to Juice was one of Ronea’s favourite things to do, though, so at the moment he didn’t feel too concerned about the watchful eyes. And he reminded himself quietly, that it was his baby boy who was forced to put more weakness and, for most people very humiliating coping mechanisms on display here, so this was hardly the right moment for Papi self-pitying.  
  
Ronea kept reading, but his thoughts were swimming around quietly, not interrupting the flow, just floating like – and the comparison felt a bit cheesy to be honest – water lily pads. Juice had started crying outside, not crashing but more like slowly sinking down from the high of playing catch and he’d looked so small and lost, almost like he’d been caught doing something naughty he’d not realised was wrong. It was sad to watch but no longer surprising. It had also stopped fairly quickly.  
  
_These good things are for... other people to enjoy… not… for me._  
  
Juice hadn’t had a binge for a very long time now and that was really good, but Ronea was well aware that every little progress made was still on quite fragile ground. Without the right people guiding and setting the rules and routine one hundred percent, Juice would trip and fall faster than saying rabbit hole and there was no wonderland at the bottom of it.  
  
Ronea was the first to admit he wouldn’t even dare to guess what the reasonable timeline would be for a person to overcome a childhood as shitty as Juice’s, just that there was no such thing as a set timeline – or route. Most happy childhoods reminded a lot of each other, but every shitty childhood was it’s own personal little hell. Juice had never had loving arms tucking him in at night or kissing him on his way to school. He’d not had a mom packing a lunchbag for him, greeting him with a hug and snack, asking him how his day had been when coming home.  
  
No dad had taught him how to ride a bike, soothed him when scraping his knees or taken him out for ice cream in the park. He’d never learned how it was when a bad fight, a heated argument or a spanking or any other punishment had been followed up with actual forgiveness and comfort. Fred Tully had whooped Ronea’s ass on occasion until his teens and no, it wasn’t a _good_ way to teach a child right from wrong and Ronea sure as hell hadn’t lerned anything but how to try and keep shit hidden, but it was a different time and it hadn’t happened often.  
  
Filip, on the other hand, had had it rougher, with Patrick Telford who unfortunately lived up to far too many Scottish – and ironically Irish – stereotypes. Ironically, Filip had muttered, since Patrick despite his given name and catholic upbringing in the fairly protestant Scotland, didn’t even like Ireland and, as much as he despised England, also had been given an English surname. Ronea had long since given up trying to become friends with his father-in-law but with all his faults counted for, Patrick Telford at least had tried to be a good father. He’d not done a very good job, but there was a difference between trying and failing and not giving a shit.  
  
Juice had had the latter kind, according to not only his symptoms and behaviour, but his papers as well. Patrick Telford might have been a huge dick on too many occasions, but he’d also put his son to bed, held him when he’d been sick and sung to him at night. He’d wiped tears and kissed goodnight, taught how to ride a bike, drive a car and dance the jig. He’d been an impatient, often intolerant and sometimes dismissive asshole, still was, but he’d rather cut both his arms off than intentionally making his son _fear_ him.  
  
Orson, Tina and Nick were only some of the foster parents who’d hurt Juice, were all a whole different kind of monsters. Not animals because Ronea found that comparison unfair to the actual birds and beasts who, unlike these monsters, never would’ve treated either their own or the spawn of another creature so cruely.  
  
The abuse had been incorporated into pretty much every part of Juice’s childhood and adolescence. Not all parts all at once in every family, but there’d never been a safe place for him and he’d never managed to turn the neglet and violence he’d experienced into a force used onto others. That, of course, was a _good_ thing, but it had also made the boy a target.  
  
Ronea finished the chapter, realising he’d not put his heart into the reading but Juice was already snoozing in Filip’s lap and Ronea’s husband smiled. It had been an intense morning with all the anticipation and then playing, so a nap was pretty much a given. Ronea put the book back in his bag and Miss Gilani looked pleased. Filip stroked Juice’s hair.  
  
“S’it alrigh’ if I sit with’im here for a while?”  
“Of course, Filip. I thought I could take a moment to  speak with Ronea outside, if that’s alright?”  
  
Filip and Ronea both nodded.  
  
“Aye.”  
“That sounds good, ma’m.”


	31. Juice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "...ye know the rules ‘bout feelings, righ’?”  
> “Not… hiding them, Daddy?”  
> “An’ not be ashamed o’ them.”

“Daddy…?”  
“Aye, lil’ one. I’m here…”  
  
He opened his eyes, not reckognizing the room and Papi wasn’t there.  
  
“Papi gone?”  
  
That was unacceptable and his heart started speeding. Then, there were soft paws onto him and Juice looked at the dog, feeling rather confused.  
  
“Dixie…?”  
“No, laddie, tha’s Yara, remember?”  
  
Oh, right. _Yara._ Dixie had been grey and white and was probably already in doggy heaven. Daddy stroked Juice’s neck.  
  
“Papi’s jus’ outside talking to the staff. Yara reminds ye o’ Dixie, lovey?”  
“Guess so, Daddy. Both pitbulls.”  
  
Yara was… clearly not Dixie. Dixie hadn’t kept her paws on him like this, just laid close to him on the mattress. Juice swallowed. It was a long time ago and he didn’t want to think about it. Unfortunately, Daddy did.  
  
“Well, ye have better experiences with pitbulls than people, Juicy, tha’s for sure.”  
“Not you and Papi, Daddy.”  
  
Daddy’s sad smile sometimes was a little too sad, in Juice’s opinion, but it wasn’t as if Daddy could control that. Juice took his hand, feeling a little better now that he knew where Papi was.  
  
“D-don’t be sad, Daddy. Please?”  
  
Daddy kissed his crown now and the smile got a little bigger, but not happier.  
  
“Sorry, lovey, Daddy cannae pretend tha’ well. But I’m not _worried_ o’ anything, lil’ one an’ ye know the rules ‘bout feelings, righ’?”  
“Not… hiding them, Daddy?”  
“An’ not be ashamed o’ them.”  
  
That one was tricky, to say the least, and Juice curled into Daddy. It was so comforting, having his arms around his back and Yara sitting close. It didn’t erase the shame, but it did make it, well… more bearable. Juice closed his eyes and buried his nose into Daddy’s soft sweater.  
  
“I’m… always ashamed, Daddy.”  
  
He took a deep breath.  
  
“You know, that... alexi-thing?”  
“Alexithymia?”  
“Yeah. I think… Daddy, I’m so disgusted with myself. I-I know you say I shouldn’t, but… at least I… have a word…”  
  
He felt bad now and the air hurt his lungs. Daddy tucked him closer in his arms and rocked him softly.  
  
“Juicyboy… When I say tha’ ye shouldna feel ashamed or disgusting, tha’s not an order, lil’ one, but a reminder. Ye cannae choose wha’ ye’re feeling, laddie, anymore than I can, so ye’re not naughty or bad for feeling stuff, alrigh’? An’ sweet darlin’, t’is really good tha’ ye’re finding words, ye know.”  
  
He got another kiss on his hair.  
  
“I’m not telling ye wha’ to feel an’ ye’re never ever bad for having a feeling o’ any kind, Juicy. S’not like ye’re ordering’em by mail.”  
  
Juice almost smiled a little at that.  
  
“Guess not, Daddy.”  
“Wha’ I mean is, ye’re not doing anything tha’ _should_ make ye feel ashamed, lovey.”  
“Still am though.”  
“I know tha’, _mo chridhe*_. But ye don’ have to carry it all alone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *my heart


	32. Filip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's no time for rest, when Filip's husband goes off the rails...

Over the years, Filip had discovered several things showing when and how his husband was in distress. Tears, pacing, anger, avoidance and self-harm, sure, but stress baking also belonged to that category. Juice, thank heavens, slept deeply this night, having had a rather good afternoon and evening after seeing Yara. He’d not been anxious when leaving, only a little sad, but it was a lot better than that first day. Miss Gilani had spoken to Ronea to get an update on Juice’s state at home after the first visit and there’d not really been much to tell apart from how the lad had missed the dog. It was honestly not much that seemed like something out of the ordinary these days.  
  
At home, Juice had a little snack before napping and the evening had proceeded as usual with Ronea making dinner while Filip laid puzzles with Juice and before they knew it, it was bath, bottle and bedtime. To his surprise, Filip found himself with some alone time after Juice had fallen asleep and he’d spent it doing some TLC on his two-wheeled girl while Ronea read a book and sipped on a glass of wine. Or, at least that’s what he’d been doing when Filip walked out to the garage.  
  
After a couple of hours, Filip put the lights out, locked the garage and walked inside, musing whether or not he’d make himself a little night cap, when he stopped in his step before even locking the door behind him. He sniffed the air and then closed his eyes and leaned back onto the door.  
  
“Oh, for _fucks sake…_ ”  
  
Not now. _Please, not bloody tonight…_ But no one heard Filip’s exasperated prayer, because he could smell the cardamom and vanilla, the lemon balm and strawberries like some goddamn bloodhound trained to sniff out prohibited homemaking. Normally, when his husband went off the rails like this, Filip would take a gentle approach, letting him finish what he’d started, but they had their special agreement now and this was clear rule breaking and, despite how harmless some cinnamon rolls might look like, a severe one.  
  
Filip walked into the office slash livingroom space where he usually disciplined his husband and sat down. He needed to collect himself before entering the kitchen or his own frustration would take over.  
  
It wasn’t whether or not Ronea had made cinnamon rolls per se, it was about the time. First of all, he’d not asked Filip for permission, which he had to when it came to any _extra_ household activities in this special arrangement they had at the moment. Ronea hadn’t run this baking plan though Filip which, if he had, would’ve been vetoed tonight. The reason for that veto was very simple: Ronea needed to rest and baking cinnamon rolls took time, effort and put him in a bad head space, especially this close to bedtime.  
  
This kind of rule breaking was serious, since it showed Ronea had slipped out of his permitted and momentarily restricted role, meaning Filip had not been paying enough attention and Ronea had not come to him for guidence. This required immediate and clear discipline of the non-pleasant kind. Permitted and completely, mutually agreed on, yes, but it wasn’t stress relief or playful or a simple rule breaking spanking, but one for punishment. Ronea hated it as much as he craved it and Filip was honestly disappointed with his husband this time.  
  
It wasn’t often Ronea forgot his place, he’d chosen it after all, but when he did, it was bad and Filip opened the cabinet where he kept his discipline tools, trying not think about how fucking hot his unruly husband would look in the outfit he picked out for him.  
  
Spanking for a rule breaking of this magnitude in this particular agreement, meant a lot of added humiliation for Ronea. All of it delivered with calm and gentleness, of course, Filip would never ever use words to humiliate his husband, he’d show him all the love and care this session allowed and once the hard parts were over, Ronea would hopefully be relaxed and lenient enough to not just accept but actively seek out the comfort he needed as much as the discipline.    
  
When everything including the aftercare was prepared, Filip put his kutte on the hanger in the hallway and walked out to the kitchen where Ronea – and God, how Filip loved his husband, but Mary, Mother o’ Christ, sometimes he was such an impossible _muppet_ – was running between the oven and his all but done rolls, putting whipped eggs and sprinkled sugar on them, while the dehydrator was buzzing on the countertop. Filip walked right to it and turned it off.  
  
“Hey, why’d you do that?”  
“Because ye’re done for tonight, husband.”  
  
He spoke calmly, didn’t raise his voice, but Ronea immediately stopped right in a step and looked at him as if _Filip_ was the crazy one.  
  
“The hell are you talking about?”  
  
Cursing? _Really?_ This had gone much further than Filip had realised and it was time to put a stop to it. He looked right at his husband, sternly and without smiling.  
  
“Ye’re _done_ for _tonight_ , _husband_. Was I not making myself clear the first time?”  
“Fuck this…”  
_“Excuse me?”_  
  
Yes, it was good that the coin had dropped, but cursing while responding to an order wasn’t permitted right now and Ronea knew that better than anyone. He now looked completely lost and very ashamed, but Filip still needed to stay firm.  
  
“Ye go upstairs an’ change into wha’ I’ve laid out on toilet seat an’ then ye come back down to me. No slacking, is tha’ clear?”  
“Yes, sir.”  
“Good. Upstairs. Now.”  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
Ronea all but ran out of the kitchen and Filip shook his head. Then he headed to the fridge and took out the dreaded vegetable.


	33. Ronea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I wan’ ye to know tha’ ye’re the smartest person I know an’ tha’ I’d be lost without ye. But sometimes ye’re acting like ye lost IQ in a bad bettling."

The craving for discipline and structure, consequenses and submission, was the only thing keeping Ronea from literally running off the house now. He hated this. Hated these absolute punishment spankings almost as much as he hated disappointing Filip and he was shaking from the contradictive emotions running though him right now.  
  
A few weeks ago, Filip would’ve sighed fondly and _maybe_ handed out a stress relief spanking along with some household restrictions, but this was their re-establishing time and the consequense for breaking a rule, especially one as important as not getting overworked, was severe and there was no such thing as Ronea being allowed to protest or even having an opinion on the matter. Not until after the discipline. Of course, protesting wasn’t allowed otherwise either, but he had the absolute _right_ to have an explanation for the discipline before it was handed out – unless he needed to figure it out during it, which was often necessary too – but not in this agreement.  
  
This was about re-building trust again and by the way Ronea’s hands were shaking as he dressed in the outfit Filip had laid out, they weren’t even close to filling the quota. And the worst thing about this, was that he’d been seriously disrespectful too.  
  
The chastity belt was soft enough to not chafe his skin, but not comfortable and the thin, pointy plug for now covered with a smooth silicon sheet, would soon only increase that feeling. He’d be figged, most certainly, and Ronea was almost proud of himself for not climbing out the window. It didn’t make it any better that, once the plug and belt was on, he got hard. That wouldn’t lead to anything good though. Sex, not to mention coming, was definitely off the table for him tonight. Naughty husbands weren’t granted cock and Ronea had been _very_ naughty.  
  
He put the tight lycra hotpants on, the special ones with a hole right under his entrance and they made him feel bad in a way that made the front strain obcenely. He hurried up with the black shorts that reached just a couple of inches beneathe the panties and the cotton tunic with vents on both sides that made him look very much like a _sub_ and, on top of it, a very boyish man. When he was finally done, he was blushing and went back downstairs to his highly displeased husband.  
  
Filip was waiting in the kitchen, reading his book and looking disturbingly calm, but when he rose his gaze, there was a small nod confirming Ronea’s appearance was acceptable. There was a potato peeler, a bowl with water and – Ronea swallowed – a generous piece of ginger on the table. Filip nodded at it.  
  
“Sit down and peel, Ronea.”  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
He wanted to cry, but tears wouldn’t get him out of this. Filip wouldn’t ignore or dismiss them, but they wouldn’t change his mind about the punishment either and while it felt awful now, Ronea knew wouldn’t want it any other way. So, he sat down and peeled the ginger as he’d done enough times before to make it perfect for this purpose. He wanted to be a good husband, after all, a good, obedient and _meek_ husband who brought pride to his spouse and their home.  
  
When the dreadful piece was properly formed, Ronea silently handed it over for Filip.  
  
“Thank ye, husband.”  
  
Great. Now he _was_ crying and the spanking hadn’t even started yet. What the hell was wrong with him today? Filip wasn’t cold or unmoved by the crying, but Ronea’s husband was a man who stuck to the rules he’d made and he helped Ronea to a comfortable position over his lap, already handing him a pillow before he removed the cover from the pointy buttplug, pierced ginger on it before coating it in a generous amount of lube. Ronea bit back a hiss when it was inserted and then firmly locked by the chastity belt.  
  
The birch twigs rattled a little when Filip took them and Ronea swallowed because the ginger had completely made him forget to think about what he’d be spanked _with_ this time. He made a pitiful little sound, wiping his already wet face.  
  
“Sir? M-may I say something?”  
“Aye, ye may, Ronea.”  
“I just want to say that, I’m not crying to… try and get out of this, sir.”  
  
His husband sighed and then rubbed Ronea’s shoulders softly.  
  
“I already knew tha’, my love, but I very much appreciate yer openness.”  
“Thank you, sir.”  
“Ye’re welcome. Are ye steady, husband?”  
“Yes, sir.”  
“Good. No counting.”  
“No, sir.”  
  
When Filip started, Ronea already felt a little calmer. That meant calm enough to focus on the stinging ginger and birch twigs, as well as the reason why he was over his husband’s lap this time. The steady, predictable pain and position helped, they always did.  
  
He’d been disrespectful, he’d _cursed_ at his husband which, unless it wasn’t meant as a curse _at_ him but only used in their normal conversations, was a big no-no. That _just shouldn’t happen_ and in this particular re-establishing agreement, it was as good as telling Filip to go fuck himself with his Dyna’s kickstand. What on God’s green Earth had set this off?  
  
Ronea’s husband obviously asked himself the same question, because he stopped for a moment, letting the ginger work on it’s own and rubbed Ronea’s tender backside.  
  
“Ye’re already relaxing, Ronea, which means ye’re understanding why ye’re getting the twigs and the ginger.”  
“Yes, sir.”  
“An’ not tha’ I don’ trust ye, but I’d like to hear ye tell me.”  
“I was very disrespectful, sir. First I broke a major rule of our agreement, by not asking you for permission before I started this… bread madness, and by that I showed a lack of trust in you to make the right decision as well as a disrespect for your authority, the rules I’ve freely submitted myself to and…”  
  
The ginger burned now but the distress over what he’d done was worse and made Ronea pant a little. Filip stroked his shoulders.  
  
“Ye’re doing well, Ronea. Breathe an’ don’ rush.”  
  
Why, oh why was he such a sucker for Filip’s praise? Still, after all these years, just that little sign of genuine love and indulgement, even while laying bare assed across Filip’s lap on a kichen chair, trapped in chastity and with a piece of raw ginger burning his hole and the spanking probably not even halfway through. The tears and now also running nose, which granted him a tissue, felt fucking ridiculous, dripping down the kitchen floor.  
  
He pulled the snot in, sniffling.  
  
“And when you told me to stop, I got mouthy and… Please, sir, I’m really sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking, I feel _awful._ ”  
“So ye agree ye deserve this spanking, Ronea?”  
“I don’t have to agree, sir, but yes, I do. I _absolutely_ deserve all of it, and I’m not saying that to… make you go easier on me, sir. P-please, let me make it up to you the way you want me to, husband. That’s all I want.”  
  
It wasn’t disrespectful to go from _sir_ to _husband_ at this point. It was difficult to explain how they used titles and names during spankings – and other more role defined situations –but they didn’t discuss it, they both somehow just knew when one or the other was or wasn’t disrespectful.  
  
Without talking, Filip put the birch twigs away and removed the ginger and plug, only keeping the chastity in place. Ronea was both relieved and a little tense when the lexan paddle was rubbed lightly on his fairly red skin, preparing him for the change.  
  
“Hnng!”  
  
He could at least queeze his backside now without the ginger to make it unbearable and that was fortunate, since Filip meant business. This was meant as a punishment, a consequence for breaking three major rules: always obeying a direct order, always be respectful and, the most important one of the three, never ever letting _work_ be more important than his _health_.  
  
Ronea bit his teeth harder and focused on the tiles on the floor to keep still as the steady blows kept coming. He _craved_ to be lenient, it was a need so deep-seated within him he couldn’t tell the end of it and now, as he was back in his rightfully earned place over his husband’s lap, Ronea could finally see himself clearly and fully embrace the picture. He’d allowed himself to trust his own instincts in a matter where he just _knew_ his instincts would lead to something bad for him and instead of letting Filip help him break the spell, he’d not talked to him and that had lead to Ronea’s mind getting caught up in a bad spin none of them, least of all his hard-working husband, needed right now.  
  
By the time Filip was done, Ronea felt like a complete and utter puddle of tears, soreness and sweat, like he’d done a serious workout – while being spanked. His husband carried him bridal style to the livingroom and placed him onto his side on the mattress. Ronea shivered when the cool cloth touched his skin but it felt so good to get rid of the sweat, getting some aloe and when Filip was done, he first removed the chastity and then his own kutte and belt and laid down to cuddle him.  
  
“C’mere, darlin’… Get it all out, aye? I’m here, baby…”  
“I’m scared, Filip…”  
“Shh, I know, lovey, I know, but ye did so, so well an’ I’m here with ye an’ ye’re safe with me… Breathe slowly, aye, tha’s better, darlin’. Wha’s happening inside tha brilliant mind o’yers?”  
“You don’t have to say that, baby.”  
“No, but I want to, because it’s true an’ because I wan’ ye to know tha’ ye’re the smartest person I know an’ tha’ I’d be lost without ye. But sometimes ye’re acting like ye lost IQ in a bad bettling. Wha’ in the world was going on before ye turned to speed baking?”  
  
This was the best, better than the stress relief, better than forgiveness, hell, it was better than sex. Being cradled in husband’s strong, gentle arms, listening to his soft voice and feeling how that knot Ronea hadn’t even known being there before, dissolving into nothing. He still sniffled, not yet all cried out.  
  
“As I said, I was scared, baby. I _am_ scared…”  
“Of wha’, darlin’?”  
“I don’t even know, Filip! That’s why… God…”  
“Tha’ why ye opened yer own private bakery?”  
  
Ronea let out an exhausted little laughter, wiping his eyes.  
  
“I did, right?”  
“Aye, lovey.”  
  
His husband kissed his hair again and let a callous finger stroke over Ronea’s heated skin.  
  
“Tha’ enough to remind ye not to carry all the heavy shite all by yerself for a while, mo chridhe*?”  
“Yeah, baby, I think so.”  
  
He smiled at Filip and kissed his scarred cheek, feeling so much better.  
  
“And if it’s not, please remind me again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *my heart


	34. Juice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, breakfast isn't the good start of the day it should be... Juice woke up with a little fever and that means he has to stay home today instead of seeing Yara. Logically, Adult Juice has no problem with that, but Little Juice's brain is taking one hell of a spin on high speed...

It was only a little fever. He wasn’t really ill, right? It was Papi who fussed over nothing and Daddy, the traitor, took him seriously.  
  
“Please, drink your smoothie, Juice.”  
“Not hungry.”  
“I know, Mr. Grumpy, but if you don’t get proper nourishment, you can’t see Yara.”  
“Like I’m going to anyway.”  
_“Juice.”_  
  
Fuck. Daddy’s stern voice. Juice felt a flush that had nothing to do with the ridiculous fever and he glared at his lover and caretaker. Yes, he glared, which didn’t exactly improve things. Daddy folded his hands on the table.  
  
“Apologies to yer Papi, Juice. I know ye’re struggling with a lot, but ye’re still gonnae show Papi an’ me respect. Is tha’ clear?”  
  
His didn’t sound angry though and Juice sighed.  
  
“Yeah…”  
“Excuse me?”  
“Yes, sir. Sorry, Daddy. Sorry, Papi.”  
“Thank you, baby boy.”  
  
Papi smiled and Daddy nodded but Juice still felt bad. Annoyed, warm and ashamed. And frustrated. He wanted Yara, needed her, couldn’t they see that? More so, he needed a spanking.   
  
It was stupid that he couldn’t have one. He was thirtyone for Christ’s sake. He’d not let them celebrate his birthday because he’d never felt like it was a thing to celebrate, and sure, he had this so call age regression thing and he definitely _felt_ little, but he was an adult. He could see Yara if he wanted to, he could drive. He wasn’t a prisoner.  
  
Papi tried to keep a conversation going, but Juice found it difficult to answer without sulking and Daddy didn’t like sulking during mealtimes. No one liked sulking boys for that matter.  
  
Juice finished his smoothie and the cup of mixed nuts but he felt jittery, it was difficult to stay still and he wondered if someone else was playing with Yara now. If she liked another boy better and chose him instead of Juice.  
  
“Baby boy?”  
  
He looked up at Papi, who patted his cheek.  
  
“If you’re feeling a little restless, you may go and roll on your mat, maybe stretching a bit, if you like to.”  
  
Juice looked quickly at Daddy, who nodded.  
  
“Okay, Papi. Thank you for the breakfast.”  
  
Usually he’d kiss Papi, but not today. It seemed wrong, like he’d not deserved to kiss him and Juice put his glass and bowl on the countertop and went back upstairs.  
  
The playmat was nice but when Juice sat down, slowly to not strain his joints, he didn’t feel like rolling or stretching. It was stupid. Stupid, _stupid_ fucking… kids stuff! He felt the shame throb inside now, a mean pace sounding like that walk of penance in Game Of Thrones: _Shame! Shame! Shame!  
  
_He was rude and Daddy would spank him, probably with his belt. Juice’s breath sped up and he tried to squeeze his legs tight to his chest. Yes, Daddy was angry with him, because he’d been a very, very bad boy. Rude and ungrateful and _mean_. Ungrateful boys need a good hiding or two, that’s what Dad Orson used to say. What if Daddy had talked to Orson and found out what a bad boy Juan really was?   
  
Juan whimpered quietly. Of course that’s what had happened. Daddy had found Orson and they’d talked about the bratty, shitty and selfish Juan. Daddy was so angry with him, so disappointed and he’d use that thick leather belt on his bare butt. That’s what Orson said was the only thing that gave results and that one time it didn’t, he’d shaved Juan’s head and _dear God, Juan didn’t want to be shaved again_. It had been one of the most humiliating experiences in his life, because he’d cried and begged, fucking begged Orson to stop, but it didn’t help. Orson had only laughed and then done it again at summer’s break…  
  
Yes, Daddy must’ve spoken to Orson, because Juan would be whipped with that belt until he blead and he’d be shaved so everyone at school could see how bad he was. And Papi, oh God, sweet Papi _hated_ Juan now because Juan had ruined everything again and they’d give Yara to another boy, who _deserved_ her… _And Juan had forgotten Mr. Bunny at the table._   
  
He didn’t know where he got the strenght from to rise, let alone move, but Juan ran down the stairs and into the kitchen, where Papi and Daddy still sat by the table and _where was Mr. Bunny, where was Mr. Bunny…?!_  
  
“Juice?”  
  
Mr. Bunny had to be saved. Juan didn’t hear anything, didn’t see anything but his little stuffed friend on the windowsill and he all but sprinted from the doorway, passing the table and grabbed Mr. Bunny. He didn’t think of anything but saving his friend and his balance was poor, making him knock out something on the countertop on his way out of the kitchen, he could hear the sound of glass breaking…  
  
“Juicyboy!”  
  
Hide. They had to hide but he’d ran upstairs again, instead of out through the door and Yara – or was it Dixie, Juan couldn’t remember – wasn’t there. There was no escape now, Orson would find him, so would Mr. Cruz and Papi and Daddy would let them, because they _knew_ now what a horrible, disgusting little half-breed Juan was. That’s why they didn’t help when the man in the alley forced himself into Juan. Because he deserved to be punished for being such a bad, _bad_ boy… The ugliest, most selfish and pathetic little brat there was who always, _always_ ruined everything nice in his path…


	35. Filip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daddy takes a chance with the past...

They found Juice under his bed, dripping and shivering, and Mr. Bunny tucked under his shirt. A pungent smell of urine and sweat mixed with feces and something else that Filip could only describe as agony. This wasn’t some temper tantrum anymore. Something had clearly happened from the moment when Juice had left the table to where he went upstairs and those five minutes, tops, that he’d been alone before running down to grab his stuffed friend.  
  
“Juice, sweet boy, you’re safe, we’re _not_ mad at you, baby boy… Please, look at Papi, angel. We love you so much…”  
  
No way. Ronea’s gentle Papi magic didn’t work now and neither did the Daddy tricks. Filip had tried to touch Juice’s shoulder, a big mistake that almost got him bitten and so, he and Ronea wisely kept a little physical distance now. The huge eyes under the bed were not seeing, at least not a loving Daddy and Papi. Juice’s gaze was piercing through the air, lost to a target only he could see and it made him freeze in terror.  
  
It was a child hiding from punishment, God only knew which one the poor lad’s invaded mind relived now. Burning cuddly bunnies, punches, starvation, a belt spanking on a scrawny little lad’s bottom. Dark nights alone in a root cellar…  
  
“Filip?”  
“Aye?”  
“Take off your tanktop.”  
“Why?”  
“He can’t see us and we can’t touch him, Filip. Maybe he can smell us?”  
  
It was worth a try, couldn’t hurt at least and Filip removed his undershirt, Ronea his striped shirt and then he put them on the floor, moving them forward with his hand.   
  
“Juicy, baby, take these… Mr. Bunny says it’s okay. You’re wet all over and these are dry…”  
  
Juice only whimpered and hissed, very much like a frightened kitten, but Ronea kept talking with his softest voice.  
  
“Juicy, angel, Papi’s little baby, my beloved boy, please, help Mr. Bunny. He’s so small and he needs a little help to dry or he’ll freeze… Please, Juicy, help Mr. Bunny so he doesn’t get a bunny cold… Just wipe your face a little, sweet boy…”  
  
The lad didn’t really wipe, he just buried his face into the fabrics and while it didn’t break the spell, it made him a little bit more still, less frantic in his anxiety. Perhaps the scent of them actually did a difference. Ronea laid a littler closer now, but by his side to not trap him.  
  
“You’re not a bad boy, Juice. _Juan’s_ not a bad boy. Papi and Daddy know that and we love you. Juan Carlos Juice Ortiz is the love of our lives, sweet boy. He’s the apple of our eye, our little ray of sunshine, who deserves to be loved and cared for, no matter what. You got angry and that made you anxious and scared, but nothing’s changed, Juicy. We still love you just as much, you and Mr. Bunny are still completely safe and no one’s gonna hurt you.”  
  
Filip watched the curled up form under the bed, who wasn’t older than four now, or maybe he was thrown between different ages again, with grown-up Juice mixed together with the panicked four-year-old and abused teen. Filip tried to recall every kind of malice people had brought upon his panicked lover and he swallowed.  
  
“Juicyboy, please listen to Daddy for a lil’ while, aye? I don’ know exactly wha’ images ye’re seeing now, only tha’ they’re very scary an’ make ye feel extremely bad. But people who _love_ each other, don’ _hurt_ each other, as we’ve talked about. Tha’ means _no one_ will do _any_ o’ the things tha’ happened to Juan to ye again. Ye wont get beaten or spanked in a way ye don’ approve, or anything like it, lovey. No one will cut or shave yer hair against yer will again. No one will take yer possessions or hurt yer best friend. No one’s gonnae leave ye alone in the darkness or let ye starve or force themselves onto ye.”  
  
It was horrible to count them up, but Filip didn’t know what else to do.   
  
“The people who beat and starved ye, aren’t here. They have no power over yer life anymore, not if ye let those who love ye help kicking them out. Orson is Daddy’s an’ Papi’s sworn enemy, laddie, an’ if we ever see him, we’ll make’im pay for wha’ he did to our beloved boy.”  
  
He closed his eyes, his mouth feeling dry now.  
  
“An’ tha’ bastard rapist who hurt ye, who _hurt Daddy’s lil’ lad_ , the one I love so much, _Papi’s one an’ only baby boy_ who can never, ever be replaced… The arsehole who made Daddy’s an’ Papi’s wee lad so scared an’ sad, he cannae hurt ye anymore either, lovey. Wha’s happening now, Juicyboy, is tha’ something triggered a painful memory an’ now yer mind doesn’t know wha’s now an’ wha’s the past.”  
  
Juice whimpered, sniffling and panting but not as hard and fast now. He sounded wornout, drained and hopelessly _sad_. The little lad who’d cried himself to sleep for so many nights with no one who would come and comfort him, just hold and kiss his tense, hurting body and tell him that he was perfect just the way he was. That he was special to someone, irreplacable and so _loved_ no matter if he was naughty or well-behaved.  
  
Minutes passed by where they were in stalemate, all three of them in different spots on the floor. Ronea’s joints were cracking and Filip’s lower back started to ache, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered now was to lead Juice back to the present, to disperse those ghosts of the past and make the lad see that that was all they were now: ghosts. And Filip silently prayed for a miracle…


	36. Ronea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The man and the boy, the present and the past...

He’d almost flinched when Filip said: _an’ tha’ bastard rapist who hurt ye_. Ronea had went through therapy, he’d talked about it with Filip and while Tig and Venus never mentioned it, Ronea was pretty certain they knew, probably early on. Sex didn’t trigger those memories, neither did words. The wrong kind of shallow touch did, strangely.  
  
But he’d survived it and had his life back too. What happened that night at the St. Andrew’s cross, had been the last time, but not the first. Not really. It had been the worst, the most obvious violation of that kind, yes, but Aaron had lost respect for Ronea’s body and voice long before that, only he’d never ignored a _no_ so blatantly.  
  
Nagging, accusing, frowning and displeased sighs – Lord almighty, those _fucking sighs_ – were Aaron’s way to get Ronea bending over. He’d never, not until the last time, thought about it as rape or even abuse. His _no_ had lost it’s meaning long before that and his tight ass was, according to Aaron, Ronea’s best asset. Oh, and his mouth, as long as it wasn’t used for talking or whining. Or humming. Or breathing too loud.  
  
Some people simply shouldn’t be allowed around any living creature other than their own kind. The sociopaths who didn’t have a sliver of empathy and harmed others as easy as breathing. They should be packed together on some island without access to boats or phones or the Internet. Ronea was very relieved he’d not had to reach thirty or forty to realise that.  
  
Juice’s breathing was, thank God, calm now. He wasn’t asleep, just limp and silent from the exhaustion and meds. Ronea and Filip had showered him as gentle as possible, got him into a clean diaper and then his pajamas before tucking him and Mr. Bunny in between them in bed. Filip had called both Dr. Case, Dr. Knowles and the clinic to update, not that there were much to be done right now than letting Juice sleep, but Ronea knew his husband felt very anxious if he thought he’d not done _all_ he could think of for now. Besides, Juice had been content with just Papi for a while too and that was, considering the circumstances, a small yet not unimportant comfort.  
  
The love Ronea had for Juice… He sighed into the boy’s/man’s still stiff nape where the sweet scent of him was strong and warm. Yes, right now he was very much a boy, but Ronea hadn’t forgotten the man he truly was, not for one second.  
  
The man he and his husband both had fallen in love with, was a bright, funny and openminded person who had an increadible capacity to live and love, despite all the hate and rejection he’d faced throughout the years. He had a kind heart, the softest laughter and the most shit-eating grin, a body to die for (and he’d heal that too) and absolutely no idea how loveable he was. And he was brave, so fucking _brave._ A brave man with too many secrets and too many unhealed wounds.  
  
Ronea had always had a difficult time to, well, truly acknowledge the sexual abuse from Aaron. Addressing it in therapy had been one of the worst things he’d done, leaving him so anxious and scared he’d probably jumped off a cliff, literally, had it not been for Filip meeting up with him after every session, not to make Ronea talk about it, but simply being there, being something to hold onto in the storm of fear, grief and shame.  
  
It had often felt like everything was showing when he’d finished a session and stepped out on the street again. He felt emotionally flayed, without protection, all bondaries dissolved and every little dirty secret in full view for everyone to see – and judge.  
  
A man who’d let his boyfriend beat the crap out of him. Who’d not had the guts to push him away. Who’d not said no…  
  
But he had.  
  
_You said no, Ronea.  
Yeah…  
You said no…  
I know… _  
  
Filip was the first person apart from the therapist, who’d not doubted him, Ronea himself included.  
  
_I said no… I… I did say no, Filip…_  
_I know, baby. Sweet Jesus, I know ye did, Ronea…_  
  
Dr. Knowles and Filip both believed him, despite only having his word to take for it. And at first, the truth hadn’t set him free. It just… hurt.


	37. Juice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Juan and Juice, Dixie and Yara, the moms and dads and the Daddies... And Cecile!

Dixie was warm and Juice snuggled closer, his body searching the one source of heat in the cold root cellar. Or was it the attic? Or the small guestroom? The one for _unwanted_ guests who outstayed their welcome. How did Dixie open the door? Had Orson forgotten to lock it? Wait… this wasn’t Orson’s house… Was it… Mr. and Mrs. Dennis’? Or Nick and Tina?  
  
Juice whimpered, tensing against the warm body. It was so hard to remember, to separate the voices, to know which darkness surrounding him, which names and faces creating it and for what reason. They _always_ had a reason, but which one was it this time? What had he done? How bad had he been? How long would he be left here and when would he get the belt? But Nick used his fists too…  
  
Paws now surrounded him, not hands. Soft paws, warm fur…  
  
“Juice, baby, it’s Yara. She’s here to look after you, my love… She’s gonna protect you, baby boy… And so are Daddy and Papi.”  
“Daddy an’ Papi are here, lil’ one. We’re not going anywhere, lad. We love ye so much, Juicyboy… Not gonnae let anything happen to ye…”  
  
Then why was he here? Juice curled to a ball.  
  
“D-don’t h-hurt me more, p-please? I-I-I’ll be g-good, I s-s-swear…”  
“Juicyboy, ye’re mind’s playing tricks on ye, lovey. Look at me, lil’ one, aye? T’is Daddy an’ Papi an’ Yara. The pitbull, remember?”  
  
Slowly, like the eyelids were rusty, Juice looked.  
  
Fur. Black fur. Soft, warm and black fur, floppy ears, a moist nose nuzzling him. And big, brown eyes.  
  
Dixie was grey and white and her eyes had been… more pale. This wasn’t Dixie.  
  
This wasn’t Dixie so… where was he? Juice blinked, it wasn’t as dark anymore, but the light was a little bit sharp to his eyes.  
  
“You remember Yara, Juicy? She’s your friend from the care centre.”  
  
Yara? _Yara!_  
  
The now came back, not all at once, but in waves, washing away a little more of the flashback with every move. Juice looked at Yara, who was hugging him, yes, _hugging_ him on the bed and… oh, it was _Papi’s and Daddy’s bed!_ He was laying in their bed and Yara was there too! He started crying, couldn’t tell why and God, he was _so tired._ Papi stroked his hair and Juice sobbed.  
  
“C-can’t go t-to the cen-t-tre t-today, P-papi…”  
“Sweetheart, I know and that’s okay. You had a very rough morning, Juicy, so we decided to call Miss Gilani and ask if it was possible to bring Yara here for little while instead. And you know what, she said that since Cecile already had time scheduled for you, she could come over with Yara.”  
  
Cecile? Juice wasn’t very good with names, but it did ring a bell. Cecile had a nice smile, right? She’d brought Yara to him at the centre… Brown, bobbed hair and freckles. Yeah, he remembered her and another piece of the puzzle that was the present fell into place. He tried to wipe his face.  
  
“Sorry… S-sorry for…”  
  
He didn’t really know what exactly he was sorry for, it always seemed like there was an endless list of things he had to be sorry for, but Cecilie shook her head.  
  
“You don’t have to appologies for anything, Juice. This is my job, you know. To help people who’re sometimes too unwell to leave the house.”  
  
She smiled now.  
  
“That’s what’s so amazing with dogs, you know. You can get them in the car and bring them with you. Best thing, you don’t even have to carry them. It’s like medicine on legs.”  
  
Now Juice had to smile a little as well and he cuddled Yara some more, just leaning into her body, listening to her breaths, her calm heartbeats.  
  
Cuddles with Papi and Daddy were the best, yes, but that was because they belonged to another category than pitbulls. A long time ago Juan Carlos, who hadn’t gotten his nickname yet, had learned that animals were far more trustworthy than humans and that dogs didn’t judge by the same scale. They didn’t care about your grades, your looks or your past. They didn’t give a shit about carreers, money or success. No matter if you were the most successful CEO of a big company or a gangly teen with slipping math grades and an “attitude”, you could still be a dog’s favourite person.  
  
Despite being a reminder of Dixie, the precense of Yara didn’t keep Juice in the memories. They floated around, yes, but didn’t stuck. The flashback was over for now and Juice’s mind could separate the time stamps again, sort them out and put them back in the right order.  
  
Dixie was the past, Yara was the present. Juan Carlos was no longer ten or fourteen year old boy, he was thirtyone and laying in a bed, not on a mattress in the attic, or the stomped floor of a root cellar. He’d not been beaten with a belt or fists. He was Juice Ortiz, with PTSD and a whole bunch of other problems, but he wasn’t alone and he wasn’t getting punished. He had two lovers, even if he couldn’t live _that_ part of his life now, who took care of him like he was a beloved family member.  
  
A part of him knew that he’d probably been given anxiety meds. He felt very heavy and tired, but it was the presence of Yara that made his body and mind remember that he’d not just survived the root cellar and the attic. He was, actually, alive.


	38. Filip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being a top can be stressful, especially when your subs are hurt.

It felt like he’d just done a marathon and Ronea looked about the same. Filip’s husband was filling the coffee brewer in a sleepwalking kind of way, performing everyday chores in the manner of someone who’d done about the exact same things in the same order for so long it happened all but automatically.   
  
Ronea looked exhausted and Filip cleared his throat.  
  
“Lovey, sit down for a while.”  
“I’d love to, but if I do that, I’ll either fall asleep or start crying.”  
  
He put the coffee on and looked at Filip, determined but not defiant.  
  
“I’d rather not do either of those things right now, Filip. Not while we have company, please?”  
  
Ronea was pleading and he shouldn’t feel the need to do that. The fact that he did, meant he was too tired to remember one of the key aspects of all the things they kept private with their relationship: that they _were_ private.   
  
Filip walked over and stroked his cheek with a finger.  
  
“I’d never make ye feel exposed, lovey, an’ if ye feel ye cannae sit down for tha’ reason, then don’ sit down.”  
“It’s not that I don’t trust you, Filip.”  
“I know. An’ I trust _ye_ to tell me when ye simply _cannae_ do wha’ I ask. So, keep moving, if tha’s wha’s best righ’ now.”  
  
He kissed Ronea’s cheek and got a tired smile in response. It was small and Filip knew there was a lot more than Juice’s nightmares behind it. Bringing up things connected to Ronea’s most painful past, even as a sort of last resort to get Juice out of the woods, wasn’t something Filip enjoyed doing.    
  
Acknowledging the sexual part of the abuse, the rapes… As with Juice it was almost impossible to grade the different parts of Ronea’s suffering. In a way it felt very natural to put the actual rapes, the forced penetrations on top of the list of atrocities. Filip was a logical and clinical man, but when it came to this, his imagination got the better of him and the mental picture of his husband being cuffed to a St. Andrew’s cross, gagged and scared to death, helpless in every sense of the word, took over.  
  
They’d dealt with it, mostly in the years before getting married, but healing was an ongoing and sometimes lifelong process with set-backs as well as progress. Going from a surviver to the world of the _living_ wasn’t a highway or even a road at times. In Filip’s experience, it was more about climbing and jumping, crawling and clinging on to whatever attachment provided to keep you from falling. And sometimes, you did loose the grip and fell, if you were lucky, a short way. If not, you took a nose dive down the pits of your own personal hell.  
  
Ronea needed a good cuddle now, but unfortunately, it was a bad time and Filip would have to wait to indulge him until later.   
  
“I’ll go outside, if tha’s alrigh’.”  
“Of course, baby. A dog is good and all, but I think five minutes without Daddy is more than enough.”  
  
Filip smiled at that, kissed his cheek and headed to the backyard, where he’d brought Juice about twenty minutes earlier. He was laying in one of the sun chairs where he could stretch his legs out, and he had Yara stretched out over him, with her paws onto his shoulders and head resting on his chest. Weariness and slowness aside, the lad looked a lot better now and while he was almost completely focused on the pitbull in his lap, he spoke to Cecile and Dîlan.   
  
“…g-grow quite f-fast, righ’?”  
“Yes, they do.”  
“S-so f-funny when th-they don’ kn-know h-how big they r-really are.”  
  
Juice so rarely showed that big, bright smile these days, and Filip had missed it terribly. Seeing it directed towards someone else was, admittedly, a little hard, but no less beautiful. The lad still was a little feverish and he was clearly weakened from the morning’s flashback, but the presence of the pitbull had literally turned the day around and so if anyone deserved Juice’s most breathtaking smile, it was her.


	39. Ronea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miss Gilani hits a nerve with Papi.

“You have a truly lovely home, Mr. Telford.”  
“Thank you, miss. Please, say Ronea. Would you like a buckeye with your coffee?”  
  
He’d already brought out the jar from the freezer and Miss Gilani looked almost shocked when he opened the lid.  
  
“You make these _yourself_?”  
“On occasion. It’s my mom’s recipe. An Ohio specialty, please have one.”  
“Thank you, they look delicious.”  
  
She took one, had a bite and smiled dreamy.  
  
“And they are delicious too. You’re from Ohio?”  
“Canton, yes, just outside of it.”  
“And what brought you to California?”  
  
Ronea smiled and nodded towards the backyard.  
  
“The Scots.”  
  
Then he bit his lip.  
  
“Well, originally, it was another… person. I met Filip later.”  
  
It felt strange to have the person in charge of Juice’s mental health sitting at their table, eating cookies and drinking coffee. Ronea put the jar on the countertop.  
  
“Lets just say it’s not the kind of story you tell at dinner parties. I know that mine and Filip’s marriage is… odd, even for those who’re not against gay marriages, so I’ve stopped trying to explain it.”  
“People can be very judgemental.”  
  
Ronea smiled at that, his ironic one.  
  
“Yeah, well… I guess we still have a few miles to go before men being homemakers is seen as just another way of living your life. These days, I’m not too bothered with what other might think about me and my family. I just wish Juice could adapt some of that thinking.”  
“He’s got good examples to learn from.”  
  
Now Ronea laughed a little.  
  
“Apart from the papers and a couple of meetings, you’ve barely had a chance to get to know any of us, miss.”  
“True, but I don’t have to tell you how rare it is for someone, in a relationship that’s barely around a year old, to put this amount of effort, moneywise and more importantly, on an emotional level, into a person as traumatized as Juice.”  
  
Miss Gilani looked directly at Ronea now, folding her hands onto the table.  
  
“It takes… a kind of strenght most people don’t possess, because they’ve never been in a situation where they needed it themselves.”  
  
This was getting a little too far away from Ronea’s comfort zone. Miss Gilani, for one, wasn’t his therapist or anything like it, and Ronea had already dragged himself through therapy. He swallowed.  
  
“I don’t mean to be rude, ma’m, but…”  
“But this is not the right time, nor am I the right person for you to talk to about these things, Ronea.”  
  
She gave that lovely smile again and Ronea couldn’t help but answer in kind, feeling his own slightly bashful smile forming as he blushed.  
  
“You’re right, Dîlan. You’re not.”


	40. Juice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So much of Juice's past is poison...

“How are you feeling now, Juice?”  
“Better.”  
“Yara really helps you, doesn’t she?”  
“Yeah…”  
  
_For now_ , the worried little voice belonging to Mr. Bunny, whispered and Juice leaned closer to the pitbull. Mr. Bunny was with him too, but with Yara present, the need to clutch him wasn’t a great. Miss Gilani was talking to Papi and then Daddy and now Cecile was sitting in one of the rattan chairs on the backporch with them, while Miss Gilani sat with Juice, Mr. Bunny and Yara by Papi’s greenhouse.  
  
Feeling the pitbull’s presence, her steady warmth, was so comforting, but for how long would Juice be allowed to have her? His worry was noticed by her and she laid down with her paws over his lap again.  
  
“I wish… wish she was mine…”  
“She is, Juice.”  
“No.”  
  
He shook his head.  
  
“I mean, for real. She’s not really _mine_.”  
“Well, not on paper, but a lot of people end up buying the dog.”  
“Didn’t think you could buy service dogs.”  
“Not the same way you buy a dog as a pet, no, but if we matches the right dog with the right person and he or she can’t afford it, we make an installment plan.”  
  
He looked up, surprised and for once not in an unpleasant way.  
  
“Really?”  
“Absolutely. There’s no point in training a specific dog with a specific person, if there’s no chance for a permanent placement.”  
“Not sure when I can get back to work…”  
“Oh, you’re not supposed to think that far ahead right now, Juice. How about we talk a little about what happened this morning?”  
  
Juice lowered his gaze, petting Yara’s fur.  
  
“Wasn’t good…”  
“What wasn’t good, Juice?”  
“Juice… Juan… was bad.”  
“You felt like a bad person?”  
“Cause I was… Juan was… bad… Papi say drink smoothie and Juan wasn’t nice…”  
“Okay. Can you tell me how you weren’t nice?”  
“Juan said no. Juan was… a brat.”  
“Uh-huh. And what about Juice?”  
“Juice gone.”  
“You didn’t feel like Juice was there?”  
“Was there, just not… talking…”  
“Okay. Was Juice thinking something?”  
  
Juice nodded. Or Juan. He wasn’t sure.  
  
“Was thinking stupid Juan, being a brat.”  
“And what did Juan think?”  
“Didn’t think.”  
“Juan didn’t think.”  
  
He shook his head.  
  
“Juan’s not thinking, just… doing. That’s why he’s… bad.”  
“It sounds like Juan isn’t as big as Juice. Is Juan a big boy or a little boy?”  
“Little.”  
“How little?”  
  
Juan squirmed, leaning further into Yara.  
  
“Sometimes… really little… and sometimes older…”  
“Does he go to school?”  
“Sometimes.”  
“Does he work? Like, having a grown-up job?”  
“Nuh-uh. Just… home.”  
“He’s working at home?”  
“We’re not made of money.”  
  
He stopped right there. This wasn’t Juan, or Juice. It sounded like a lot of voices, men and women, melting into one. He stared right ahead, the greenhouse and grass seeming fussy.  
  
“Girls are better, because they don’t eat as much. And they’re clean. Boys are… a nuisance. Must be… kept occupied and out of trouble.”  
“And how was Juan kept out of trouble?”  
“Moving lawn, trimming hedges. Washing car, scrubbing bathrooms.”  
“Those were your weekly duties?”  
“And the dishes.”  
“How old was Juan?”  
“Twelve… Thirteen…”  
“How many people lived in the house?”  
“Eight. And Juan.”  
“Nine people? Wow, that sounds like an awful lot of work for a thirteen-year-old, doing the dishes and scrubbing the bathrooms for nine people.”  
“Kept Juan out of trouble.”  
“What kind of trouble?”  
  
Juan had been a bad boy, that much was clear. A secretive brat who was up to no good and therefor had to be kept occupied. He would be grateful later on, when he realised how much trouble he would’ve gotten himself into, had they not kept an eye on him…  
  
Yes, he’d been bad and in risk of getting into trouble, but exactly how had Juan been bad and what kind of trouble would he’d gotten into if left to his own devices?  
  
“Juice?”  
  
Tears were stuck under his eyelids and they fell when he bent down to Yara’s head.  
  
“I don’t know… Sorry, I… I just never… figured it out…”


	41. Filip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you happy?”  
> “We have our ups an’ downs, but as a whole, aye, we are.”  
> “And it shows.”

“Ye think this… the nature o’ our relationship will be a problem?”  
“In what way?”  
“Well… isn’t tha’ obvious? S’not exactly based on equality an’… the role Juice has in it…”  
  
This was more difficult to talk about than he’d anticipated and Filip felt himself getting flushed. He stroked his hair back and forced himself to look at Miss Gilani. He didn’t want her to think he was ashamed of the way he lived, or in need of her approval. Nontheless, it wasn’t a nice feeling and Filip silently admitted to himself that the people he’d chosen to surround himself with and the work and acticivites he took part in allowed him to feel pretty much free from unwanted opinions. A little bubble, so to say, and while it was comfortable and necessary, perhaps Filip had avoided stepping out of it to an extent than maybe wasn’t completely healthy.  
  
Miss Gilani, who was sipping on her second cup of coffee, put it down and looked directly at him.  
  
“I was born in a city called Ilam, in the Kurdish part of Iran, as an only daughter to a Kurdish couple. My parents were very progressive and wanted their daughter to choose her own path in life, to follow her dreams and so, despite the risks, they encouraged me from an early age to think for myself and express my opinions. Of course, when I got older, I also learned how to come across as far less free to make sure I remained free.”  
  
She smiled.  
  
“Coming to America wasn’t easy, considering the tension in politics and the prejudices you face as a Middle-Eastern person, and as a woman, on top of that. I could never have worked the way I do here back in Ilam, Filip, and while I do miss my parents and many things with my home country, and also dislikes some things here, I’ve never regretted my choice. I’ve learnt a lot in my years here, especially from the many patients I’ve treated, and while most of our problems often are similar no matter who we are, all my patients and their loved ones, are all different. It’s not for me to judge and even if it was, I don’t see anything about your relationship that calls for me to judge it.”  
  
Filip gave a nervous little laughter.  
  
“Aye, but we both know t’is not exactly the norm, an’ tha’ there are parts o’ it tha’ lots o’ people would consider damaging.”  
“Are you happy?”  
“We have our ups an’ downs, but as a whole, aye, we are.”  
“And it shows.”  
  
Miss Gilani folded her hands on her knees and looked around the kitchen.  
  
“You should know, Filip, that I havea great deal of respect and admiration for all three of you, not least you and your husband. The way you’re taking care of Juice, the commitment, the sacrifices you’re willing to make for him to get better, it’s… remarkable. Even with Juice’s insurance and savings, it doesn’t cover everything and that’s without counting all the emotional work.”  
“We’re used to it.”  
“Exactly. Your husband wouldn’t give me any details, Filip, but I’ve worked long enough in this profession to know a survivor of long-term abuse when I meet one and had a chance to talk a little, albeit not digging deep.”  
  
Filip wasn’t sure what to say. That Ronea had been abused was something people close and even semi-close to them had known from the beginning, since the PTSD – and the scars – had given it away so often during their first years together. One one hand, it wasn’t a complete secret and on the other hand, it was to everyone Ronea hadn’t allowed close enough to see.   
  
He fingered the two rings on his left hand.  
  
“Our marriage… it’s… not complicated, only different. I’m in charge of all the major decisions an’ Ronea has chosen to take a step back, relying more on my judgement rather than… taking part in all o’ the decisions. Tha’s how we’ve lived for almost the entire time, an’ I know t’is strange for most people, but it suits us, Dîlan. An’ I…”  
  
He rubbed the bands again, exhaling slowly.  
  
“I’d never ever force anyone into this lifestyle. When we met Juice, it was… Jesus, t’is such a strange thing, tha’ we met him an’ both fell in love with him, an’ he with us… He’s not always been like this, ye know. We dinnae… commit ourselves to him because we wanted something broken to mend.”  
“You’re worried people will see it like that?”  
  
Filip threw his hands out in an exasperated gesture.  
  
“Honestly, I don’ know wha’ I’m worried about outside Juice’s, or my husband’s health. I’m supposed to take care o’ them an’ I know my limits an’ wha’s not reasonable to expect o’ an ol’ mechanic an’ biker, but sometimes t’is jus’ really hard. The moments when Juice… when he disappears from us, when he’s back somewhere we cannae reach’im an’ he’s reliving hell all over again…”  
  
He shook his head, realising he was crying a little, silent as it was, and he wiped his face.  
  
“I can deal with it, for my own part. Ye know, Ronea’s suffered from PTSD since we met. Fist time we met, was at the E.R. when his then boyfriend had broken his fingers… An’ he was so… I’d never seen anyone like Ronea before. He dinnae try to pretend anything or come up with a bogus explanation, he jus’… I wanted to protect him the moment I met’im an’ it feels similar with Juice. There’s a strong, bright an’ funny man inside him somewhere, Dîlan, an’ I wan’ him back. He should be free too, ye know… He deserves a _life_ …”


	42. Ronea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ronea gets misread and in this situation, it's a very bad thing.

The day had seemed endless and Ronea was drained, as were Filip and Juice. Dîlan and Cecile had left with Yara after a couple of hours and Juice, thank heavens, had by then reached a mental state where he could actually accept the promise that he was going to see Yara again the day after tomorrow. The fact that he was able to tell the difference between the now and the past was a blessing on its own.   
  
They’d babied Juice a lot the entire evening once it was only the three of them again. Partly because the boy was so tired yet not sleepy, but mostly it was a coping strategy for all of them. They’d bottle fed him, not giving any solid food at all, and potty training had been cancelled for the day. Instead, they’d changed him, redressed him into a onesie and laid down on the playmat all three of them once the company had left.  
  
Fruitful as it had been – and it really had – the visit was still stirring up a lot of painful stuff and frankly, they needed a fucking break. In Juice’s case, that meant just laying in his Daddies’ arms with relaxing cartoons in the background, sucking on his bottle or pacifier, while being cuddled. When he was finally asleep, the boy was a lot calmer than Ronea had even dared to hope for. Filip went outside to lock the bike and car in for the night while Ronea finished up in the kitchen. He didn’t feel bad or funny or anything now, just emotionally drained and putting the china back on the shelves, wiping off the surfaces and sweeping the floor didn’t bring the same sense of satisfaction and calm as usual.  
  
That’s why the sight of Filip coming in from the garage and walking straight to the second kitchen drawer to take out the large wooden spoon, didn’t make Ronea surprised, worried or even thinking, but relieved.  
  
He didn’t know why his husband was going to spank him, only that there always was a reason and that one part of Ronea’s role, was to trust Filip. His husband had never spanked him without a good reason, allthough he had made some mistakes over the years, of course, but the point was, Filip Telford never did this just for the sake of it and tonight, all Ronea wanted, with all his being, was to obey and be meek. He’d just finished up preparing tomorrow’s breakfast, the dishes were done and instead of starting to think about why he’d get a spanking this time, Ronea hung the kitchen towel to dry and walked over to his husband, leaning into him.  
  
“Please, hold me?”  
  
It wasn’t a question, because his husband never ever used declining of physical comfort as a discipline tool and Ronea felt the solidness of Filip’s arms around him and got a small kiss on the side of his neck.  
  
“S’not a punishment, lovey.”  
“Okay.”  
  
Knowing when to use _sir_ and not, was a thing they’d not even tried to make rules about, because it somehow came so natural to Ronea. And by using lovey instead of his given name, it was clear that this would be an emotional relief session although Ronea wasn’t sure why he needed it. Not that it mattered.   
  
There was a special kind of softness to the procedure this time, when Ronea followed Filip into the livingroom and closed the door. He’d grabbed the baby monitor on the way, of course, but his mind was already focusing on the task ahead, starting to shut the rest of the world out. He wasn’t Papi now, or Mr. Telford-Tully, but Ronea. Only Ronea, a happily submissive husband who needed guidance and support. And often, that support was best given over his dominant husband’s lap.  
  
He didn’t even look to see what kind of instrument Filip had chosen, but simply kneeled on his usual spot by the couch. Instead, he closed is eyes and just focused on his other sences. The soft pillow under his knees – he’d made it himself more than fifteen years ago – the sounds of Filip’s steps he once couldn’t tell from Aaron’s… There’d been days when every footstep was his, when every moving door handle was his doing and that time the new aftershave Filip tried out was too close to the one Aaron used…   
  
During that time, closing his eyes willingly hadn’t been an option. When he’d knelt, not because he wanted to, but because he’d been thrown off his feet. When Aaron had whipped or spanked him, never without adding extra humiliation with the position or instrument of choise, but mostly, the words.   
  
Bitch. Man baby. Little girl. Fag. Cumslut. _Whore…_   
  
“Ronea, lovey?”  
  
The long since dead voice that still echoed so many years later, faded away and Ronea found himself shaking in Filip’s arms. His husband was on the floor with him, holding his hands.  
  
“Are ye about to get a flashback, baby?”  
“I… I don’t know…”  
  
He couldn’t look up now, but he could still feel it was Filip who held him. His husband kissed his forehead, nuzzling him.  
  
“Can ye feel who I am, Ronea?”  
“Filip… You’re Filip…”  
“Aye. An’ who am I to ye, darlin’?”  
“My husband…”  
“Tha’s righ’, lovey. Where are we?”  
“Home. In our house and… and Juice is sleeping upstairs. Juice is our lover.”  
“Good, very good. Ye’re doing great, Ronea. Jus’ put a hand on my chest… tha’s right, lovey. Now, follow my breath, aye? I’ve got ye, _mo leannan_ *.”  
“I’m not tryting to… get out of…”  
  
He whimpered now, truly whimpered and wasn’t prepared for how pitiful it sounded. He balled his fists, his whole body tensing and he hated how he just _couldn’t_ be meek.  
  
“Ronea, lovey, jus’ breathe, please. Ye’ve not done anything wrong, not broken a rule or disappointed me in any way, _a thasgaidh**._ I can see ye’re scared o’ something but ye don’ ever need to be afraid o’ me, lovey. Fear s’not respect, remember?”  
“I’m not trying to get out of it… I promise… I-I’ll be good.”  
“Ronea, who am I? Look at me, darlin’. _Who am I_?”  
  
He couldn’t unclench his fists, but his knuckles were moved and he could feel skin, stubbled skin against them. Then the course beard and… scars. When Ronea opened his eyes, he couldn’t see for the tears and he buried his face onto Filip’s shoulder, shaking.   
  
“F-filip. You’re Filip…”  
“Tha’s righ’, my love. I’m Filip Telford, ye’re Ronea Telford-Tully an’ we’ve been married for over twenty years. We’re a domestic discipline couple, an’ ye’ve promised to obey me, aye?”  
“Yes.”  
“Do ye recall wha’ _I_ promised?”  
  
He did, but couldn’t really form thoughts now, so he just kept crying and Filip stroked his back.  
  
“I promised to _protect_ ye, lovey. From harm from others, yerself or _myself_. Ye’re _not_ obliged to obey me, if I fail to keep my part o’ the deal, Ronea. I thought ye needed an emotional relief spanking, but I clearly misread ye an’ I’m jus’ insanely relieved I dinnae proceed before I realised tha’.”  
“But… I _do_ need it, Filip.”  
“No, Ronea. Wha’ ye need now is a hug. An’ so do I…”  
  
They remained like that, just holding each other while Ronea cried. Normally, he’d _need_ a spanking to break like this and the whole situation felt very strange, like someone had suddenly cut a hole in their tightly weaved routine. It was scary and uncomfortable and Ronea clutched Filip’s clothes to the point where he dug his nails into his skin.  
  
“I’m here, lovey. Sweet, sweet Ronea, I’m here… I’m not Aaron, lovey. _I’m not Aaron_.”  
“I said no, Filip… I said _no_ , right?”  
“Ye did, Ronea. Ye said no, I know ye did.”  
“I said no…”  
“Ye’re heading into a flashback, lovey… Remember who I am, where we are…”  
“Filip… At home…”  
“Aye, I’m Filip an’ we’re home an’ ye’ve not met Aaron in more than twenty years, darlin’, because he’s dead.”  
“He’s dead…”  
“Tha’s righ’, husband. He’s dead an’ cannae hurt ye anymore… ”  
  
Filip kept talking, words flowing so softly, touches protective and ever so slowly, the now returned. And Ronea didn’t know if he was crying out of fear or relief. Fear of being on the doorstep on the worst of his flashbacks, or relieved his husband had pulled him out of it before it was too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *my sweetheart/my beloved  
> **my darling/my dear


	43. Juice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Who hurt you, Papi?"  
> "You shouldn’t think about that, baby boy."

“Fear not this night, you will not go astray. Though shadows fall, still the stars find their way. Awaken from a quiet sleep, hear the whispering of the wind. Awaken as the silence grows, in a solitude of the night… “  
  
In his sleep, he knew the voice. There was only one voice connected to this… this song. Juice moved a little, unconsciously closer to it.  
  
“Darkness spreads throughout the land and your weary eyes open silently. Sunsets have forsaken all, the most far off horizons… Nightmares come when shadows grow, eyes close and heartbeats slow.”  
  
His sleeping mind knew this man and his body reacted to the sound of his voice. He wanted to come closer, to feel more of the warmth. There was nothing cold, hard or, lonely about this.  
  
“Fear not this night, you will not go astray. Though shadows fall, still the stars find their way. And you can always be strong, lift your voice with the first light of dawn… Dawn's just a heartbeat away… Hope's just a sunrise away…“  
  
He wasn’t dreaming, he could feel it was Papi. The broken skin under his fingers was all Papi’s, the scars and partly knobbly surface…  
  
_Who hurt you, Papi?_  
 _You shouldn’t think about that, baby boy._  
  
He needed to hold onto his Papi, to feel it was really him. Papi had survived, he’d made it out… Juice whimpered.  
  
“Papi…”  
“Right here, baby boy. Papi’s right here with you.”  
“D-don’t go…”  
“Never, my little love. Go back to sleep, sweetheart… Papi loves you, just rest, angel…”  
“Love you t-too…”  
  
It felt like Papi was sighing, but the weariness was stronger now and before he could feel the tears on his hair, Juice had fallen back to sleep.  
  
When he woke up, Papi was sleeping heavily and Juice turned away from his chest to look at Daddy, who smiled at him.  
  
“Good morning, lil’ one.”  
“Morning, Daddy.”  
  
He looked at Papi again, then back to Daddy.  
  
“Papi tired.”  
“Aye, he is. We should let’im sleep for now.”  
“We see Yara today, Daddy?”  
“Aye, we are, in a few hours.”  
  
Daddy now stroked Juice’s cheek.  
  
“Ye had a rough day yesterday, Juicy. Especially in the morning.”  
“Uh-huh.”  
  
He kind of remembered that, but not too clearly. Daddy kissed Papi’s hair.  
  
“Papi had it a wee bit rough too, lovey. We gotta be extra gentle with ye an’ him today.”  
“Juice can be gentle, Daddy.”  
“I know tha’, lil’ one. I know ye’re gentle with Papi. But can ye be gentle with both Big an’ Lil’ Juice too?”  
“Papi’s gonna feel better then, Daddy?”  
  
Daddy sighed but smiled.  
  
“Aye, laddie. Papi’s gonnae feel much better if his wee lad is nice an’ gentle with himself.”  
  
Well, if it helped Papi… Juice nodded.  
  
“Okay, Daddy. Juice be gentle.”  
  
He then moved a little and took his pacifier out.  
  
“Juice is wet, Daddy.”  
“Then lets go change ye, aye?”  
“Sounds good, Daddy.”  
  
Without waking up Papi, they left the bed and Juice realised he was more steady on his feet than usually after this long sleep. He could tell he’d been sleeping longer than usual and that often meant he felt a bit wobbly. Mr. Bunny, of course, followed to the bathroom and Juice held him while Daddy removed the diaper.  
  
“Papi sad.”  
“Bou’ wha’, Juicy?”  
“Cried in Juice’s hair…”  
  
Daddy stopped for a moment before reaching for the wipes and then started cleaning him. Juice sucked on his pacifier.  
  
“Juice make Papi happy again, Daddy?”  
“Ye always make him happy, lovey.”  
“Papi doesn’t cry if he’s happy.”  
“Well… cannae argue with ye on tha’ one, lovey. Lift yer hips, please.”  
“Or if… if you spank him, right, Daddy?”  
  
Daddy smiled now.  
  
“Ye both do, lil’ one. Sometimes Papi needs a good cry an’ if I can help’im with tha’, I will.”  
“Daddy?”  
“Aye, lovey?”  
“Juice… Juice thinks Papi needs… needs to b-be spoiled, Daddy.”


	44. Filip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Juice is having a better morning and totally wraps Daddy around his little finger.

Preparing anything meant to be eaten, was a rare thing and Filip had to admit he was nervous. Not that he would actually _cook_ anything, no bloody way, but to sneak back into the bedroom to turn off Ronea’s alarm and grab some clothes felt ridiculously naughty and it didn’t help that Juice, that impossibly sweet lad, giggled quietly outside the door.  
  
He seemed really well today and while Filip suspected it had a lot to do with the fact that he’d seen Yara, it was a very welcome sight. Yesterday had been rough though, on all of them, but especially Juice and it was quite surprising to see him so alert the morning after. Usually, he was quiet and exhausted this close to a emotional breakdown like that.  
  
As they snuck down to the kitchen, Juice held Mr. Bunny in one of the stuffed arms, instead of squeezing him tightly and that, Filip guessed, was a good sign. The lad felt safe now, as he looked around the kitchen, almost bouncing a little and Filip had to step in.  
  
“Juicyboy, why don’ ye bring yer mat over here an’ lay down rolling a bit, aye?”  
“Juice helping.”  
“Aye, an’ righ’ now, Daddy says ye’ll help’im by rolling some o’ tha’ energy off on the mat.”  
  
He didn’t speak too firmly, just calm and clear and the lad stopped bouncing and nodded.  
  
“Yes, Daddy.”  
“Good lad.”  
  
He smiled to assure that he wasn’t scolding Juice, something that had become necessary ever since the breakdown and even more so now that he was _Little._ Being Little didn’t mean only bad things, though. Filip looked at Juice rolling his still sore back on the playmat and how he held his stuffed friend in his arms.  
  
It looked carefree and relaxed, natural even, or maybe that was because Filip was so used to this Little side now. Of course he longed for the lad to “grow up” again, but it had to come naturally and in a gentle and allowing way. They had to keep remining themselves to treat this age-regression as any other mental illness. It wasn’t a choice, wasn’t weakness and wasn’t about avoiding problems as much as it was a way of trying to face them without shattering.  
  
Of course, had Filip not witnessed Juice’s breakdown first hand, it might have come out as manipulative and avoiding, but the fact was that Juice had tried immensely hard to express himself when he really couldn’t, to keep a smile up when he had no reason to and once he started to come closer to his adult side again, it would probably feel horribly embarressing to him. But this was a mental disorder, it was PTSD just as much as Ronea’s cuttings and flashbacks, the only difference was the source of the evil and the tools used to fight them.  
  
Filip took out cups, plates and a tray, checked the opening hours for the bakery and then walked over to Juice.  
  
“Are ye sure ye’re up for a ride to the bakery, lad?”  
“S’not far, is it, Daddy?”  
“Five minutes, tops, but ye’ve not been riding for a long time.”  
“Can’t we take Papi’s car?”  
“Aye, we could, but…”  
  
But they really didn’t borrow each others vehicles without permission. And Ronea loved his car. Filip looked at Juice.  
  
“Ye know Papi’s gonnae get furious an’ make me sleep in the garage for a month if anything happens to his car, righ’?”  
  
Juice gave an innocent-but-not-at-all-innocent grin.  
  
“But you’re a mechanic, Daddy. And you could always buy flowers…?”


	45. Ronea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Papi gets a surprise and I'm self-indulging with some tooth rotting fluff... Sorry, not sorry!

Breakfast in bed always sounded like a very cozy idea on paper, but in reality, it usually meant coffee stains and bred crumbles in the sheets, awkward movements to keep the tray stable and, not to mention, the coffee pot left downstairs so you had to move your ass for a second cup anyway. But there were exceptions, and not even the fact that Filip so blatantly had ignored the meal plan – and the fact that food wasn’t his area to make decisions about – could upset Ronea this morning.  
  
Filip put the tray on the bedside table with a slightly apologetic smile.  
  
“Juice talked me into it…”  
  
Ronea rose his eyebrows.  
  
“Really? _Really_ , Filip Telford, that’s your plan? Blaming your boy?”  
“B-but we didn’t break the rule, Papi. Right, Daddy?”  
  
Juice looked so cute this morning, but he tugged a little at Filip’s sleeve and Ronea’s husband cleared his throat.  
  
“Uhm, technically, lovey, Juice actually made the coffee. An’ set the tray. I just… picked up the rest.”  
“And the flowers, Daddy.”  
  
Ronea just _looked_ at Filip.  
  
_“Flowers?”  
  
_Well, his husband apparantly was crazy today and Ronea almost tipped the tray when Filip picked up the bouquet he’d been hiding behind the bedside table.   
  
“Uh… So, uhm… Here ye go, lovey.”  
“Holy fucking _shit_ , Filip Telford…”  
  
Now Juice giggled and Ronea just shook his head at the madness, not even realising he’d been cursing at his husband. _Twentyfive_ yellow Doris Day roses. This was beyond mad, it was…  
  
“S’your favourite, right, Papi?”  
  
Yes. Yes, it was. Ronea inhaled the lovely scent and then looked up at his husband again.  
  
“If we were a different couple I might ask what kind of mischief you’ve been up to. Is my kitchen safe?”  
“Completely.”  
“My car?”  
“Safe an’ sound, darlin’.”  
“Huh… So… my kitchen’s not of fire, my baby hasn’t a buckle, it’s not our anniversery and not my birthday…”  
  
He’d counted on his fingers and his husband blushed.   
  
“Actually, it _was_ Juicy’s idea…”  
_“Daddy…”_  
“Wha'? It was!”  
  
Juice was pouting a little now and Ronea didn’t know what to think. Filip cleared his throat.  
  
“Well, aye, t’was Juicy’s idea ‘cause he thought his Papi needed to be spoiled an’ I jus’ happened to agree because, ye know…”  
  
Juice smiled and rolled his eyes, almost like he would’ve done before the downward spiral had started for real.  
  
“Because you’re the best husband and Papi _ever_ , and we love you. Look, we brought croissants!”  
  
Ronea swallowed. This was so sweet, so unexpected, all of it and especially Juice’s ability to express it like an adult would and Filip’s clear weakness for it, that made him dare to step over Ronea’s breakfast plans like this. Twentyfive Doris Day roses and freshly baked croissants from his favourite bakery… He cleared his throat.  
  
“Put the tray away, please.”  
  
There was a moment where his husband and lover looked surprised, as if thinking they’d done something wrong, but Filip obliged and when the pastries, coffee and flowers were on a safe distance, Ronea pulled his boys into a hug, kissing their necks where he could reach.  
  
“You two… you’re my favourite people in the entire world…”  
  
He nuzzled them again, Lord almighty, how he loved his little family.   
  
“Please, tell me we don’t have to rush with this?”  
“Don’ worry, lovey. We have plenty o’ time to get crumbles in bed.”  
  
Ronea laughed at that and looked at the roses again, then his husband and then his baby boy who looked excited and happy, which was a sight for sore eyes if ever there was one. Ronea patted the bed.  
  
“Not a chance you two are sitting on chairs or the floor. Get up here, you _muppets._ ”


	46. Juice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Juice has a session with Dilan where they keep exploring alexithymia and his non-existing sense of selfworth.

“Good work, Juice. And Yara.”  
“Good girl, Yara.”  
  
He loved her. There was no other word for it, the way Juice felt when the black pitbull sat down beside him on the floor. Dilan was with them but Daddy and Papi were outside. It felt okay, actually. Not completely safe, but definitely better than he’d felt without the dog. Dilan sat crosslegged on the floor too, on a safe distance.  
  
“I heard you gave Papi breakfast in bed today.”  
“Juice did.”  
“You liked doing that, right?”  
“Uh-huh.”  
“Is it a good thing, or a bad thing to do something nice for somone?”  
  
Juice giggled a little. Silly question.  
  
“Good, of course.”  
“Yes. Can you think of more good things you’re doing in a day?”  
“Uhm… Being happy?“  
“Okay. Lets write that down, okay?”  
“Okay.”  
  
Dilan picked up a big piece of paper from a stack on a little wagon next to her. She put it on the floor along with a package of crayons.  
  
“Which color?”  
  
Juice shrugged.  
  
“Doesn’t matter.”  
“Blue?”  
“Sure.”  
  
It really didn’t matter, it was just a crayon and Juice snuggled closer to Yara. Dilan wrote _breakfast in bed_ _for Papi_ and _being happy_ on it like a list.  
  
“That’s two things, Juice. What else can you think of?”  
“P-polite?”  
“Being polite? Okay, that’s good. Anything else?”  
“Being… clean?”  
  
He actually came up with several things after thinking about it. Finishing meals, not yelling, not cursing, not walking over newly mopped floors with dirty feet. Juice almost felt a small pinch of pride obout it when Dilan put the crayon down.  
  
“Good work, Juice. Now, I’m seeing something quite interesting with this list.”  
  
She held it up for him to see it better.  
  
“All the things you counted up here, are good things you’re doing _for others._ ”  
“Uh-huh.”  
  
Of course they were. Dilan was weird. She held out the box of crayons again.  
  
“Lets pick another color. This time, I’d like you to choose one you really like.”  
“Okay.”  
  
Sure, he could do that. Juice took the box and picked out a green one.  
  
“You like green?”  
“Yeah. S’like m-my room.”  
“In the apartment or in the house?”  
“H-house.”  
  
He handed over the crayon and leaned further into Yara. Mr. Bunny was with them too and Juice held him a little harder in his arms. Dilan smiled.  
  
“Now, we’re going to think about good things that you’re doing just for _you_. Not for Daddy or Papi or anyone here at the centre or on your job. Just _you_.”  
“Okay.”  
  
He really didn’t know what that _okay_ meant, he just said it, like he’d nodded, agreed or just stayed silent so many times when someone made a suggestion or gave an order.  
  
_Do you understand?_  
  
Yes, sir. Yes, ma’m. Yes.  
  
Nod.  
  
_Just_ _silence._  
  
There was never a real question there, was it? Just an order to obey, even if he didn’t know why or how. He swallowed and felt Yara coming closer. It helped, her warm weight, the solidness of her kept him steady. Mr. Bunny was whining.  
  
_It’s a trick, Juan. Sh-she’s g-gonna f-find out h-how s-s-selfish w-we are…_  
  
“Juice?”  
“Y-y-yes…”  
“It looks and sounds like it’s a very scary thing for you to think about. How about we take a step back. Stop thinking about it for now and take a deep breath. Let Yara guide you.”  
  
In. Out. Fur. Paws.  
  
It hurt at first, but it got easier. The tension was there, but not crippling this time and the sweat didn’t break out. Yara was close, in fact, she was holding him now, her paws almost humanlike around his neck.  
  
In. Out. Fur. Paws.  
  
She was there, he wasn’t alone.  
  
He wasn’t _there_ , he was here. Mr. Bunny was still shaking but didn’t whine now. Just shivered.  
  
“Juice? Can you hear me?”  
“Yes…”  
  
He was whispering, but he heard her and could answer. Yara still hugged him, Mr. Bunny was safe between them too, his breathing had slowed down.  
  
In. Out. Fur. Paws.  
  
Safety.  
  
“It looks to me as you feel extremely uncomfortable thinking about good things solely for yourself, Juice. Is that right?”  
  
He nodded. Couldn’t speak, but she was right. It felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff. Neither Juan nor Juice deserved being so spoiled. Not when Daddy and Papi got hurt from it. Some day he should pay them back, every single cent, but the time and effort, all the hardship they’d suffered because of him, that he could never erase. Mr. Bunny sniffled.  
  
_Don’t wanna be b-burned again, Juan. It h-h-hurts!_  
  
But he couldn’t promise his friend it wouldn’t happen and Mr. Bunny kept shaking even as Yara protected them both. They were in the room, but also not and Juice just gave up and fell apart against the only source of comfort he could still reckognize.


	47. Filip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daddy is contemplating again, this time it's 2nd person pov, reflecting over his role with both his partners while holding his lad after the therapy.

**Filip (present day)**  
In a way, it’s like clockwork now. Comforting someone who’s not really there. In some cases, Ronea is the best person to comfort your lad, but right now, Juice needs his Daddy. He needs you and so you give it to him, give yourself to him with all your being, not because you’re a selfless person giving your life for others, but because your need to help is as great as his need to be helped.  
  
You’re rocking this grown-up man in your arms like he’s a wee bairn, hoping you’re providing the strenght, the safety he’s so desperate for. You’re using the knowledge your life with Ronea has given you, while also trying not to compare your lover and husband.  
  
It’s difficult sometimes, especially when Juice is loosing another fight against his memories and his pain takes him to a place where you can’t follow. You’ve fought the same kind of battle with Ronea’s demons for twentyfour years now and while there are mostly small skirmishes these days, compared to the dragged out battles they used to be, they’re still hurting you and you have to remind yourself that you’re not useless for not being able to stop them entirely.  
  
_You’re a strange man, Filip,_ Venus used to say in the past, and that came from the one who shared bed and laundry basket with Tig. Only she didn’t refer to sexual preferences or constant sarcasms. She was talking about your need to protect Ronea in every way possible. And since Juice entered your life, you’ve come to realise that maybe your need says more about you than your husband.   
  
One time, you actually feared that you might _want_ Ronea weak. That having him afraid and depending on you so much was something you thrived from, like some even more twisted form of Münchausen by proxy. That maybe he wasn’t that much different from Aaron after all, wanting someone weak to feel needed and in control.  
  
Unfortunately, you didn’t share your worries with Ronea, but started to make distance instead. You’d already been married for eleven years by then and your inability to open up to him about your concerns, lead to a long, painful time for both of you. It’s not a good memory at all, but it’s useful and you’re diving into it as Juice is finally drifting off to sleep in your arms.  
  
You were thirtynine, Ronea thirtyfive and what made the whole matter worse, was that he actually had a _good_ period. It was autumn and your husband had a lot of energy, more than you’d ever seen him with, and it was the good kind of it, not the nervous, restless kind. He took good care of himself, hadn’t injured himself or had a panic attack or flashback in over two months and you remember he was bloody glowing with his garden work, his weekly workouts down the gym and that he met friends regularly.   
  
In hindsight, his strenght had risen so slowly and steadily over such a long time, you’d simply not noticed it enough to realise your roles were shifting. Aaron hadn’t come up in conversation that much for a while, but that autumn, it was as if he’d never existed. I should’ve made you happy or at least fucking relieved, but humans are creatures of habit and when you no longer had to comfort your husband on daily or even weekly basis, you felt lost. Lost and needless and as you’ve always been so aware of your thoughts and feelings, you felt shame.   
  
Shame for what seemed to be a wish for a weaker husband. Did you secretly _want_ him to suffer? Was that why you’d married him? For needing to be the useful person to someone? Did you actually want Ronea to be weak and sad, just so you could feel good for comforting and protecting him? Did you even, God forbid, unconsciously make him _less_ strong and independent than he actually was? Were you just another, nicer version of Aaron?  
  
That fear became gravel in your clockwork and it started to work less and less well. You withdrew yourself a bit, left more decisions to Ronea, didn’t spank him as often and even, which makes you cringe just thinking of it, stayed away from home more.  
  
In your mind, you were giving him space and keeping yourself from hurting him. You still felt like shit, even more than before, but you told yourself Ronea wanted it, despite not asking him or even saying a word. When his interest in sex decreased by the second week of this madness, you were too thick to realise it was a reaction to your withdrawal and interpreted it as a sign of how you still weren’t giving him enough space. That you were still trying to make him feel weak. And the worst thing about it, was that you were so trapped in your mindset, so certain that you were right and determined to save your husband from what you figured was your unhealthy need for control, that you completely forgot to listen to _him_.  
  
Your fucked up bubble bursted one night when you came home from work and wasn’t met with a kiss and dinner, but a dark, empty house and a note.   
  
_Filip,  
I’m staying with Venus for a while. Dinner’s in the fridge. Love you/Ronea_  
  
To say you were shocked, actually isn’t an exaggeration. Ronea _never_ left notes. He called, maybe texted if he couldn’t get hold on you, and he most certainly didn’t change plans like that. It just didn’t happen.  
  
Finally, you paused for real. This completely non-Ronea thing made you sit down at the table, not to eat, but to think, as if you’d just gotten your first cup of coffee in a morning after a hard party night. The fog you’d ended up in started to clear and you started laughing, not because you were happy, but for realising what a complete and utter _eejit_ you were. You were laughing, then crying, still laughing almost hysterically over your kitchen table, almost considering slamming your stupid head into it, before remembering how much of a hypocrite _that_ would make you.  
  
Within two minutes you were out of the house and on your bike, rushing to Venus’ place and she barely had time to open the door before you rushed in, finding Ronea with a cup of coffee and red-rimmed eyes by the telly. You stopped, pacing a bit and looked at him.  
  
“Lovey, I… I donno wha’ I was thinking, I’m… Christ, I’m such an _eejit_!”  
  
You went to the couch, wanting to just throw yourself in his arms, but the coffee stopped you and instead you started crying again.   
  
“Baby…?”  
  
It should be you comforting him, letting him scold you or whatever he needed, but instead you were the one weeping in his arms. He held you and your incoherent words spilled all over, until they made him anxious and he got tense.  
  
“Filip, I… Please, stop! I can’t… I don’t understand. I don’t understand you and _you’re scaring me!_ ”  
  
That made you get some of your shit together, at least enough to calm down and your confused, scared and hurt husband looked at you with the kind of worry you’d promised to protect him from. He was so sad, eyes just crushing under it and he swallowed and looked away.  
  
“Is… Do you wanna leave me, Filip? You want a divorce?”  
_“Wha’?”_ **  
**  
The full entity of what you put him through for the last weeks is something that will give you nightmares for years to come. But at that point, at the couch, you just made a pitiful whimper and pulled him into your arms. You weeped into his neck, clutched his clothes and your words weren’t enough but they were all you had.  
  
“No, no, Ronea… No, I don’… Never, lovey. _Never!_ This is… Fuck, I never thought you’d… I’m so sorry, Ronea. Jesus, I’m _so fucking sorry_ …”  
“What did I do, Filip?”  
“Nothing, baby. Ye’ve done absolutely nothing wrong, t’is me who’ve jus’… been a complete eejit. I’ll tell ye all about it…”  
“You… You’ve met someone…?”  
“No! Jesus fucking Christ, no, I’ve not… been cheating on ye, baby, an’ I’ve not met someone else an’ I don’ bloody wan’ a divorce. I love ye more than anything, Ronea, I’m jus’ a fucking moron who dinnae talk to ye.”  
“So… you’re not angry with me or…?”  
“No, no, not at all. But ye should be angry with me, because I jus’ put ye through hell an’ I had my head so far up my arse I dinnae realise it until I came home.”  
  
Ronea sniffled, now a little bit less tense.  
  
“Okay… Can… Can you please tell me what’s going on then?”  
  
  
**Ronea (35 y o)**  
The last weeks you’ve felt like you’re slowly fading away. He’s not spanking you, not fucking you and when he gives you an order, it’s with a shrug, as if it doesn’t matter to him whether you’ll obey or not. You’re usually pretty good with communication, but this behavior is both new and scary and your husband sometimes looks at you like he’s seeing something he’s… appalled by.  
  
You’re trying to bring it up at first, but he’s not listening because his answers are vague and lack the usual sternness, like he’s trying to avoid the subject and first it’s strange, then annoying and finally downright terrifying.   
  
He’s coming home later than usual, stays away a lot more and when you’re asking for permission to do something out of your usual schedule, he seems uncomfortable and annoyed. You feel like you’re bothering him with petty things that used to be really important and when he’s clearly not open to conversation, you start to feel miserable. You’re scared, only not realising it, and neither do you reckognise the feelings of worry and claustrophobia you thought had been buried with Aaron.   
  
You’re starting to think that sure, Filip loves you, but maybe not as he used to. He’s not touching you, or looking at or talking to you like before and first you try to give it time, reminding yourself about your own difficulties and that everyone deals with stuff differently. The problem is, your husband’s withdrawal is too subtle at first and when you’re finally starting to worry, you’re already in deep waters and even if you weren’t so far from shore, you still wouldn’t know which spot on the beach to try and reach.  
  
It’s an oxymoron, but it hurts to not being spanked anymore and you miss it more than sex. Your safe spot, the focal point you can always rely on when your mind is going downhill, is gone and replaced with alonetime. And your husband clearly expects you to be strong, so you’re trying to be. But when he’s leaving for work, you’re still crying over the breakfast dishes.   
  
Right now, maybe you should be yelling at him, pushing him away and demanding an explanation, but you’re touchstarved and you’re both crying. Filip is cradling your face between his hands, leaning your foreheads together and there are still fresh tears coming down his scarred cheeks.  
  
“Lovey, I… I’ve misread ye an’ I was too wrapped up in myself to realise tha’. S’not about ye, Ronea, s’about me. I thought I was… grinding ye down.”  
“What?”  
  
You’re perplexed. This wasn’t what you expected. At all. You’re still in his arms on the couch and you look up at him with your own soaked eyes. Filip looks so miserable, but you’re not seeing any disgust or even distance in his eyes now. He has his normal gaze, he’s seeing you and that alone makes you calm enough to wanna listen. You cuddle into his chest, fingers swirled together.  
  
“Please, baby, just tell me what’s going on. _Everything,_ please?”  
  
He does. It takes time and it’s difficult, but you’re finally getting to know what’s been going on and it baffles you. When Filip is finally done, you feel a ton lighter. You’re still angry, yes, and very unstable after these long, gruesome weeks, but your idiot husband hasn’t stopped loving you one bit, quite the opposite. Angry or not, you love him to death and it feels so, so good to be cradled in his arms again.   
  
This is where you feel strong.  
  
  
**Filip (present day)**  
You’re a strange man, you know that, but it doesn’t mean you’re wrong or bad. You don’t wish for your loved ones to suffer and you’re not longing for the moments when their pain makes them fall apart in your arms. You want to heal them, that’s it.  
  
Where they see weakness, you see the strenght it takes to show vulnerability. Where your husband saw guilt, you saw survival and when he felt ashamed, you were bursting with pride. He’s your hero, your Frodo carrying the ring and you’re his Sam, carrying him when he’s crushed under the burden you simply can’t imagine, only accept.   
  
When your lover is crumbling from the shame and fear his terrifying memories have installed within him, you want to collect the shatters like treasures, not to be kept, but to be rebuilt again and again and again until they start falling naturally into place without your help. Until he can see enough of what you see in him, to stop hating himself.  
  
This, holding this strong yet shattered man in your arms, would not have been possible without Ronea. His trust in you makes you strong, gives you purpose and pride. You’re just as lost without him as he would be without you. Without the fundament of your relationship, neither of you would’ve been right for Juice. You’re no longer the other half of each other, but the other third of a trio, completing each other in ways you may not always like, but that’s the truth you have to work with.  
  
Those saying that you can walk away, that it’s just a choice, don’t understand the concept of choice at all. You can’t grasp the idea of entering a relationship without the intention of keeping your eyes fully opened to _all_ of it and becoming something more together with this person than you are on your own. A relationship means sacrifices for everyone involved and that’s why your husband and lover both make you stand in awe so often.   
  
Because they could’ve shut you out. They could’ve walked away, slammed the door and refused you entering. They could’ve spared themselves the discomfort and extreme vulnerability of opening up to someone who hasn’t lived through anything even close to their nightmares, but they didn’t.  
  
You’re not their knight in shining armour, you’re their Samwise Gamgi. You can’t carry their burdens for them because you simply lack the ability to do that. So no, they can’t lay down their memories, their nightmares and fears for you to pick up for a while, but like Sam carried Frodo, _you_ can carry _them_.  
  
So you’re sitting with Juice in your arms in the therapy room after his session, not to pretend that you can actually take on his burden, because that’s not possible. But you’re his safe spot, just as you are Ronea’s. The resting place where they can let their fists unclench, their sore feet slow down, their eyes stop darting all over for threats and their tightened muscles prepared for fights and flights relax.   
  
You’re not their saviour or healer, just a man who loves and is deeply in love with them. It’s not the burden of dealing with their pain that threatens to consume you, but the thought of loosing them to the darkness. Because they’re both, with or without the pain they carry, the joy and pride of your life.


	48. Ronea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reflections of a Papi <3

It was one thing to know about the ups and downs, the chaos and sticky webb of fears, and a whole other to detangle and sort them out. Ronea silently watched Juice and Filip, who were laying a puzzle together now with Yara close to Juice’s  side and Dîlan handling the conversation in her warm, affable voice. It felt pretty good to just be a bystander right now, sipping on some tea – the staff here was amazing with that kind of small and welcoming gestures – and pretending to read a book.  
  
Giving Juice time to resettle after therapy was important, hell, that had been the truth with Ronea too twenty plus years ago. The time with Tara Knowles was one of the most difficult and gruesome things he’d voluntarily headed into and it had taken several of them before he’d even been able to acknowledge that what Aaron had done to him wasn’t a momentarily loss of control the man couldn’t really help but, in fact, the exact opposite. After one of those occasions in Tara Knowles’ office, he’d felt like he’d been skinned alive only without the physical pain.  
  
His own way of resettling, to get back into his protectioning skin again, had been to drive off somewhere quiet for a while, just to collect himself. Filip soon realised, and more importantly, accepted that it was necessary and didn’t disturb. Not that it was easy for him either, having to just wait and trust Ronea not to hurt himself in the aftermath of some seriously painful talking. But he did and, he showed that trust and respect which Ronea had needed so badly.  
  
Juice’s needs after therapy were different though. Ronea watched him with the puzzle. The boy was focused on it, didn’t look around like he’d once had to keep track on everyone, but he stayed close to Yara and it seemed as if just leaning into her a little every now and then, helped a lot. Breaking professional secrecy wasn’t necessary in order to understand at least _some_ of how the sessions had turned out. Juice had opened up, in fact, he’d done so in every session and it showed from the amount of weariness and general look of being at lost afterwards.  
  
Ronea took another sip of the tea, recalling somewhat amused how Filip had turned him British in this one and only area, and kept looking over the scene, like a silent guardian. It still felt a bit strange sometimes, being someone’s top. It felt right, one hundred percent so, but yeah, strange. Discovering, indulging and, more importantly, developing this _top_ side with Juice felt ridiculously natural to Ronea, while it had also fucked with his mind a lot in the beginning. This side included a lot of traits from mom who, clearly and without her son realising it, had taught him a lot more than cooking and cleaning.  
  
Unlike the difficult and slow process of accepting the want and need for the special kind of relationship with Filip, being Juice’s Papi had been more like things simply falling into place. The need to care for, the need to be cared for, just connected in a different way.  At first, it had worried Ronea a little and he’d talked a lot with Filip about it. Clear and open communication had always been extremely important to them, and with a third person involved, even more so.  
  
It had been an unexpected and pleasant surprise that developing the relationship with Juice, also meant getting to know Filip on a new level and these days Ronea had a whole new respect for his husband as a top and the kind of responsibility and struggles it meant. And at the same time, Filip had gotten to see how two painful pasts, not the same but in some way similar, could be used as tools to build understanding and healing.  
  
The webb was there to be seen now, had slowly revealed itself for a long time, and Ronea felt strangely calm despite the mess of it. Because just as with the spider starting to make its webb, the mess Juice was trapped in, had a beginning. Seeing the main material of the webb thread had also become possible now and it was, in all it’s horrible simplicty, about abandonment.  
  
That didn’t mean that the physical abuse or the rape were any less awful or important, but what kept catching Juice in the vicious trap again and again, was the fear of being alone. And that’s where Ronea’s past couldn’t help him understand his lover, because _his_ greatest fear had always been to be weak. Juice’s past had ingrained a kind of strenght no child should ever have to learn and it served both as protection and prison. It kept people away, yes, but it also put Juice in an emotional isolation that was very hard to imagine for anyone who’d not experienced something akin to his kind of trauma.  
  
The red line throughout the tangled and sticky webb, contained of people who’d abandoned Juice in different ways. He’d spent his first year on Earth in no less than six different families and God only knew how much of emotional development that alone had caused. New faces, smells and arms roughly every two months for an infant was a red flag for future problems if ever there was one. But Juice had been a quiet child, who’d learned very early on that raising his voice meant problems and that the best way of getting some good attention from adults, was to be seen and not heard. That smiling was a tool for protection and not a way of showing feelings of joy. And since he didn’t act out like troubled boys usually did, he got overlooked again and again.  
  
It wasn’t fear of physical punishment or even scolding, starvation, darkness or cold that dominated Juice’s behavior, but that of being ignored. And he’d learned that people ignored his pain, that he wouldn’t get attention if he gave voice to it so what remained was to either do things that would grant him praise or things that made people punish him. Anything to acknowledge that he was, in fact, a living person who could be seen and heard.  
  
In hindsight, the attention Juice had gotten that first morning when they found him in the roses, must’ve been a complete shock for him and just like a prey stuck in the spider’s webb, he’d not been able to run away. The difference was that he’d been offered to leave, there’d never been a webb or an intention of trapping him at all, but he’d grabbed the chance and, in a way, allowed himself to be caught. Not trapped, but caught as if from a fall, just as Ronea had allowed himself to fall and get caught by Filip. And Juice had been seen that morning. Not just looked at, but really been seen as close as two strangers had been able to see a person as closed down as Juice. That’s when the trap had closed around not just him, but all of them.  
  
The child within Juice needed to know, that being trapped against your will, wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t his fault, not then and not now, and he wasn’t weak. Neither was he alone, not anymore.


	49. Juice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally an update! I've had a couple of crazy weeks and not in a good way, with some hospital visits and far too much stress - nothing serious, just symptoms that scared the shit out of me but turned out to feel worse than they were. Anyway, I'm finally finishing another chapter and it takes off close to the previous one when it's time to leave the clinic and Yara for the day.
> 
> Love and kisses!

Saying goodbye to Yara was difficult, and today it was worse than before. Juice still felt more out of himself than usual, like the flashback earlier had squeezed him dry. He held Mr. Bunny tight and tried to just lean onto Yara while mentally preparing to leave.  
  
She was so warm and loosing touch with her reminded all too much of how he’d felt before Dixie had laid down with him when he was a scared, freezing teen. The touch of her meant he’d live, that he wasn’t so cold, alone and vulnerable anymore. Loosing it meant...  
  
“Juicyboy, s’alrigh’, lil’ one. Ye’ll get to see her tomorrow again, darlin’.”  
  
Daddy.  
  
For a moment, Juice felt a pinch of guilt for caring more about the dog than about Daddy and he curled into Mr. Bunny, preparing for being scolded at.  
  
“Hey, sweet lad, c’mere, aye?”  
  
No scolding, just a cuddle. Those strong arms, the scent he loved so much. A kiss on his nape.  
  
“Ye’re not naughty, lovey, an’ ye’re not getting punished. We need to go home now an’ tomorrow we’re coming back here, I promise. I know it’s difficult for ye, but _please_ , trust Daddy, my love.”  
“We’re so proud of you, baby boy, you’ve worked so hard today and now it’s time to go home and rest.”  
  
Papi’s raspy voice was so soothing when he spoke this low, it was almost a little drowsy. If Papi was calm, that meant Daddy had things in check. And if Daddy had things in check, then Papi didn’t have to worry and that meant Juice didn’t have to either. Right? Juice sighed and let go of Yara, feeling a little proud of himself for a moment, but then he leaned on to Papi instead, crying.  
  
It was so tiresome. This constant rollercoster ride that kept changing, taking new turns and never stopping long enough for him to just stay in _one_ safe emotion for a while. Papi held him though, rocking him a little, and nuzzling his hair. Then Daddy’s arms came around them both, closing them in.  
  
“We’re gonnae get through this, Juicy. Ye, me, Papi an’ Yara. I know yer feelings aren’t keeping up with all tha’s happening an’ tha’ it’s difficult to trust me sometimes. Tha’s not being naughty, lil’ one, s’ completely normal.”  
“Does it help any that _I_ trust Daddy, angel?”  
  
It was never quite enough with only the one of them. Daddy and Papi were two very different individuals, but also a unit. A very solid, yet not closed unit. They completed each other and although it was difficult to stop crying, Juice nodded. Papi’s trust helped a lot. It was weird, or rather it _should_ feel weird. Daddy was in charge, that was the deal, so why did Papi’s reassurance help so much? He obeyed too.  
  
Juice felt Papi’s heart, his calm, the strenght in his hands. If he wanted, Papi could deck Daddy, without the help of his frying pans, but why would he? Daddy was Papi’s hero, he’d go through fire and beyond for him, carrying him on his hands if necessary, because Papi was submissive, not weak.  
  
“More than twenty years, baby boy… I’ve trusted Daddy with my life this far and I always will. If he says you’re seeing Yara again tomorrow, you are. Well, unless there’s an earthquake or rapture. Not sure he can stop those, but otherwise…”  
  
Juice shuddered and immediately got a tighter hug from his lovers.  
  
“T’is alrigh’ to _feel_ , lil’ one. Ye’re a human being, not a robot.”  
“But I’m… I’m just sick of it…”  
  
Of being a mess. Of crying. Of feeling so much and not being able to sort it out. Of constantly being knackered from it. He clutched Papi’s shirt now.  
  
“I… I don’t _wanna_ feel things…”  
  
He was sobbing on Papi’s chest, not really needing to be comforted, just having a place to rest his overwhelmed head. And he was allowed to. There were soft little kisses on his hair, gentle strokes and just that safe warmth that so often seemed able to simply take his chaos and drown it for a while.  
  
“I know how that feels like, baby boy. It’s so exhausting sometimes, living with heads as fucked up as ours.”  
“Ronea!”  
“What? They _are_ fucked up, Filip, I didn’t say _we_ were.”  
“Tha’s a _very_ long stretch, lovey.”  
“What can I say, I’m good at making things last longer.”  
  
The little bickering was, in fact, soothing too. It brought a sense of normalcy to the situation, made it all feel less heavy and serious. Slowly, Juice started to relax a little again and the crying decreased to small, dry whimpers. Papi rocked him and nuzzled his ear.  
  
“Papi’s good boy needs to come home now for some dinner, a nice, warm bath and a clean diaper. We have Disney movies to watch, bottles to drink and nighttime stories to read, angel.”  
  
They did. The mentioning of the routine was comforting. Things weren’t changing, just following the now normal shiftings of a day. Yara was still with her paws on Juice’s knees and Mr. Bunny wasn’t shivering. Maybe it was, in fact, safe.


	50. Filip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He’s dead, lovey, but he’s still here, isn’t he?”  
> "Always."

He’d learned to love the fragility long before his husband had been able to even admit it’s existence. Though sometimes, Filip wasn’t sure _fragility_ was even the right word for it. Seemingly, yes, but how fragile could one possibly be and live through what Ronea and Juice did? Corny as it was, the quote from the Rocky movies held a lot of truth: _it's not about how hard you can hit it's about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward.  
  
_There was a special kind of pain, trying to protect those you loved from past horrors already occurred and impossible to erase. A no mans land where you were neither the cause or the cure. You could only ease or inflame the wound, but never heal it. Some hurt simply couldn’t be made undone.  
  
Filip watched his husband from distance. He was sitting in the sofa, knitting with the telly on low volume as a background noise more than anything else. Juice was in bed and had slept soundly when Filip and Ronea left him. It was still pretty early and had this been a normal night, they would’ve been enjoying each others silent, comfortable company while reading or watching something. Normal to them wasn’t what others would consider normal. Most people didn’t need to leave a space for PTSD in their daily schedule.  
  
Ronea’s eyes were heavy and a little distant.  
_  
Papi tired? Papi sad?_  
  
Juice was so much more vigilant than they gave him credit for. Even these days, when he was battling demons pretty much every waking hour, he still caught up Ronea’s feelings.  
  
Filip looked away again, not wanting to give the impression that he was studying his husband. His pain wasn’t the same as Juice’s, but there were enough similarities to cause triggers. Every survivor dealt differently with their trauma. Every case was unique in it’s own horrifying way and Filip had learned that the most efficient way to deal with it, was to try and be prepared for everything without letting it control you. Easier said than done.  
  
“What’s irking you, husband?”  
  
Ronea’s voice was almost serene, but Filip wasn’t fooled by that, nor the rhythmic clicking from the knits. There were two ways to deal with this, one of the was the normal one and also wrong. Pretending like nothing. The other was hard but more rewarding in the end and Filip looked down on his half-empty tea cup.  
  
“Ye are, lovey.”  
“Figured as much.”  
  
There was a slight annoyance in Ronea’s answer. Not disrespectful, really, just the tone of someone who’d danced this dance often enough to do it perfectly in his sleep by now. Filip listened to the almost hypnotic sound of the knits. His husband was self-soothing and probably already aware of it, perhaps even the reason for it too. How ever, this wasn’t a good time for demands, at least that’s what Filip’s gut feeling told him. Ronea wasn’t really shutting down or avoiding him and Filip swallowed.  
  
“Ye wannae talk about it?”  
“No, but that doesn’t make any difference, right?”  
“Because ye think I’ll force ye?”  
“Because it’s not going away just because I don’t wanna talk about it. Because I’m married to a guy who couldn’t pretend things are fine if his life fucking depended on it.”  
  
Exasperation. Knits moving faster, hands that used to grab whatever they found to inflict pain are holding on to the metal sticks for dear life. Filip had no idea how many times he’d watched this man fall and rise, stumble, rise, fall and rise again. Picking up the pieces time after another, loosing some of them on the way, collecting others he didn’t know were there. Falling, breaking and always rising.  
_  
I’m weak. (Ye’re the strongest person I’ve ever met.)  
I’m pathetic. (Ye’re my hero.)  
I’m so tired. (Then let me carry ye for a while, please?)  
I’m permanently damaged goods. (An’ I love every shatter o’ ye, even if they don’ fit like they used to. In my eyes, ye’re a whole person, with yer cracks an’ lost pieces. I’m not trying to make ye whole, ‘cause ye already are.)_  
   
He’d seen through the controlled façade from the very beginning. The tears that weren’t shed, the pain so carefully concealed by layers of clothes, make-up and hard smiles. A piece of art to look at from distant but not to approach. Not to touch. Couldn’t risk things to become real.  
_  
If I keep smiling, joking, letting your worry bounce off me like a rubber ball, will you leave it be then? Will you please pretend with me, a little while more, because it feels so good not to feel… I’m finally too numb to care about how the shatters of me are piercing through my feet as I’m running away, refusing to look back…  
  
_And then it came. The wall or the pit, not just blocking the way but brutally cutting it off and the carefully mended pieces once again smashed and shattered. The hard smile becoming a shocked, incredulous grimaze.  
  
_I thought I’d become strong, but I’m not. I never was… I’m still feeling, how’s that even possible?  
Because ye’re still a human, lovey, an’ humans feel.  
I wish we didn’t.  
  
_Well… Filip leaned over and put a hand over the knits. The movement got stuck and the hands turned still.  
  
“He’s dead, lovey, but he’s still here, isn’t he?”  
  
The ghost who once had flesh, blood and cruel hands. Filip had never met him, never touched him, only seen the aftermath of his raids. Scars and bruises, blooded clothes and dead pets. The desperate smiles, dried tears and black eyes.  
  
_I’m fine, baby, I promise._  
  
“Always.”


	51. Ronea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ronea, 1st person POV, trapped in memories and the everlasting road of healing.

There are moments when my husband crushes me. He doesn’t know it, certainly doesn’t mean to, but it happens and the worst about it, is that it comes from a wish of helping and healing. I love him madly, but whenever he’s unknowingly breaking through a new barrier with the best of intentions, I have no defenses left and is left to stand in the ruins with nowhere to hide. Gradually, I’ve lost my ability to build road blockers, because I so rarely need them with someone who always knocks and waits before entering.   
  
He’s not touching me yet, just my knitting. I can’t distract myself, which is the point. Usually, this is what I crave so much with the spankings, but this is completely different. No one, not even my husband, can spank this particular pain away and he knows it. He knows, because we tried that once fifteen years ago and it put us both in a horrible head space it took weeks to move away from.   
  
That spanking almost crushed me, not physically, but mentally. I couldn’t cry, couldn’t relax and he had to stop because I was starting to bruise and still I wasn’t even close to tears. I barely felt the physical pain, it couldn’t reach through and I was stuck in my head, my memories of another hand, another man and another me. I’d not been brought back to Filip, but drifted further away and swept up by Aaron, too far for my husband to reach.  
  
It’s not a flashback. Not then and not now. I’m in the now, too much so, and horribly aware of all the things I first tried so hard to forget, then deny and when that didn’t work, control, conceal and organize. There’s something grotesque about portioning and packaging chaotic, painful humiliation in neat little boxes, trying not to see how the stinking, poisonous content is leaking through, perhaps just a little, but with time enough to infect everything it touches. There’s still a part of me who refuses to admit that there’s no such thing as a space completely void of all emotions in my memory.  
  
The part of me that helps me forget how I laid, not stood but _laid_ on my knees, arms reached out on the floor while confessing to Aaron what a pathetic bitch I was. It muffles my stuttering sobs, dries up my sweat and piss, erases the smell of feces and terror and the taste of the gagball. He didn’t need my words to get a confession. Nods and whimpers went a long way. And I can see it but not feel it. I’m a spectator now, not a participant and I watch the first time he raped me.   
  
I remember how sore I was on the St. Andrew’s cross. My wrists were numb from the cuffs and I’d not had enough water to drink. My mouth was gagged and I couldn’t shut down, couldn’t slip away to my subspace at all and at first it was confusing. When he slabbed some lube on us and thrusted hard, there was no pleasure what so ever, the pain sharp and blood tasting, nowhere near the right zone and I couldn’t get away, couldn’t form words and the nose wasn’t enough to fill me with oxygen.  
  
I can see the tall but very skinny guy facing the white wall. His hair is plastered over his face and neck, skin moist from sweat and his knees are shaking, the weight not entirely held up, but partly pulled by the cuffs.  
  
He looks so small, he’s almost covered all the way by the man behind him. I see the broad back, the muscular buttocks squeezing with every thrust, the fot angrily kicking the smaller man’s knees further apart. He’s not submissive, he’s just being used.   
  
The gag doesn’t muffle him completely. He has no voice, can’t form words or scream, but he still makes sounds. He’s crying and there’s snot running down his nose in disgusting bubbles, eyes shifting between wide terror and the almost dazed shock. I realise he’s still, even after more than two decades, not sure if it’s real.  
  
The burly man behind him keeps a fast and rough pace, but he’s perseverant and takes a long time to finish. He’s rutting, grunting and his gaze is low, fixating on the red scars on the back and completely missing the eyes trying to turn around to make him _see…_  
  
Because this is a mistake, right? It’s the drugs, the stress, the game I didn’t know I was playing. I’m _not_ playing, this isn’t an act, _I’m_ the gagged creature and there’s a small stain of blood in the semen running down the legs.   
  
That’s my body hanging from the cuffs, my knees giving in and my head dropping. The vomits once the gag is removed are mine, so are the stinking excrements smeared on my skin and the floor. It’s Aaron’s foot stepping in my urine, his disgusted voice calling me a sow, a reaking whore, a shitty, slutty, useless cum dumpster… I’m not there, but I can still see, hear and smell every sign of my defeat…  
  
“Ronea, lovey, talk to me, please? Come back to me, darlin’!”  
  
Letting him see me like this, is impossible to get used to. Every single one of these attacks, these sneaky backstabbings from the past, is like the monster who grows another head every time you try to chop one off. I know I’m not on the cross, but the knowledge isn’t connecting to my feelings. There’s  no passover, nothing to make the anxiety understand it’s just a memory, and I’m just a frozen by-stander, neither saving nor tormenting the man supposed to be me.   
  
“Husband!”  
  
I’m not prepared for it. The strenght. The sharpness. It breaks through the image of myself and I’m no longer alone looking at the man by the cross. I know, I _know_ my husband can’t see it, he wasn’t there, wasn’t a part of my life back then and that’s why he couldn’t save me but the name he calls me by brings me back.  
  
“Lovey, ye’re safe. Ye’re _safe_ now, sweet husband.”  
  
I was young, very young the first time I felt intrigued by that title. _Husband._ It didn’t come from my own dad or his marriage with mom, but from something on the telly I honestly can’t remember now. I liked the sound of it, the weight and importance it seemed to carry and later on, when I got older and understood more about how the framework of marriage didn’t have to mean shit beyond the name, I still knew that what I wanted to be was a _husband_ – and having one.  
  
I never spoke about it, not even to the people in the community fighting for legalization of gay marriages, because it seemed like a ridiculous and fucking weird thing to dream about, but I always longed for it and today, it’s still bringing me a little closer to him again. I’ve had boyfriends and several lovers, but only one husband. I’m loosing hold of the knits as the voice finds and grabs me, starting the process of dragging me up from the pit of my own personal hell. Again.  
  
The skinny man on the cross fades, not away, but back into me. He’s part of me, he needs comfort and stability. He needs to hear he’s safe now, that he’s worth saving. That he’ll make it from the pit, perhaps not by himself, but with a little help. I can see that there’s no St. Andrew’s cross there, no whips, no cuffs and no Aaron.  
  
And I’m not crushed and my love has the softest arms to fall into, but good God, how I wish the road of healing didn’t feel so everlasting…


	52. Juice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've been cruelly kept from my nerdy stuff for a while now, thanks to some illness, but I'm steadily getting better and I think, despite all the heartache, that Juice is too <3

Not being able to sleep had, for quite some time now, been a thing of the past. Juice laid nestled between his lovers in the big bed, wide awake, and the clock on Papi’s nightstand was ticking closer to half past three. Dawn, really, neither night nor morning and the house was quiet save for the sound of the sleeping men breathing steadily and calm on each side of him.  
  
The gap between the window and curtain slipped a sliver of light onto Papi’s side of the bed and his face looked hunted and like he wouldn’t be rested enough once the alarm went off. Juice adjusted the pillow to lay closer to him and Papi made a little sigh in his sleep, cradling him tighter to his warm body.  
  
In this stillness, the anxiety usually peaked. Or it had in the past. Since he’d start living with Papi and Daddy, sleep had gradually become more and more peaceful. The nightmares still came, but less often and with less intesity. It seemed to take shorter time now for the brain to catch up and separate dreams from reality. The nights, somehow, were no longer a thing to worry about while being awake. Sleep came, with a little assistance from meds, sure, but Juice knew the most part of this change came from his lovers.  
  
Papi’s arm was heavy around him, the hand tucked against his chest and the ink and scars barely visible in the dark. They were there though, only momentarily veiled but not hidden. Juice followed the lines, the inked as well as the white marks with his eyes, what was visible in the dusky room. They told a story, each and every one of them, of fear, shame, panic and loneliness. Sometimes, you were more alone with others than on your own.   
  
In a way it was difficult to imagine his strong, intelligent and loving Papi being with anyone but Daddy, especially someone who hurt him so badly he started hurting himself because of it. Juice had loved these hands from the first time they handed him a cup of coffee and pat on the shoulder. There was kindness in them, he’d felt that right away and the scars hadn’t put him off one bit. None of them ever had and when Papi had allowed him to touch and feel for himself, it hadn’t been to tell him to be gentle, but to show that he wouldn’t break.  
  
How had Papi reacted, how had he felt when his ex beat him? Had he been confused? Maybe. Afraid? Probably. Felt alone? Absolutely. Of that, Juice was sure. Being the main target of someone elses rage, disappointment or disgust was a horrible thing and even more so when your “crimes” were of a sort you could never really prevent. A diabolic game purposefully designed to make sure you couldn’t win. Always alone yet never free of watching eyes, trained to pick you apart and look into every piece, magnifying it and force you to see how worthless you were. A failure to the bone who should be punished.  
  
Juice lifted his hand to stroke Papi’s arm. It looked strangely small, almost frail in the dark as did the hand. The movement caused Papi to stirr a little and Juice turned around in bed to face him. He carefully laid an arm around the man’s torso and snuggled close to kiss his hair, as Papi so often did to him.  
  
“Sleep, Papi… I’m here…”  
  
Daddy wasn’t stirring and Papi seemed to be soothed by Juice’s little touches and whispers. Images of how Papi must’ve slept on edge, sore and scared and so alone suddenly invaded Juice’s mind and he felt anger, no, rage, if only for a moment before the gentle breathing of his lovers took over again. In this moment, in the safety of their warm, soft bed and with the evidence of how Papi had survived it all, presented in the flesh of the man himself, the anger faded and just before Juice shut his eyes again, Papi curled closer to him as if, just this time, the baby boy was the comforter and the Papi needed to rest in his arms.


	53. Filip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Filip 1st person POV. I know this story has been more slow than usual of late, but I'll do what I can to make it a little less dragged out in the chapters to come - I hope!

Sometimes I wonder if the way we met helped or worsened ye. The fact tha’ I saw so much of the shite we wannae hide before we even got to know each other. Ye weren’t a patient anymore, I had no obligations to stay away but I remember tha’ I questioned myself, my motives, a lot when we were dating. Ye had a crazy ex, aye, an’ ye’d been roughed up, nothing tha’ would scare me off easily, but I was still cautious.  
  
I’m watching ye from the door, the coffee isn’t even done yet an’ usually I’d still be sleeping. But here I stand, following yer breakfast routine like some spy, yer skilled hands preparing fruit salad an’ I hate the small, barely noticable, tug o’ worry in my guts when I see ye lift the knife.  
  
Ye’re cutting pineapple, peeling the thick skin off from the slices, then chopping them into little pieces. I’ve always loved watching ye work, because ye look so at ease, often even happy. I found it weird for a long time, an’ I’m still a bit sorry I dinnae understand how much better off ye were as a homemaker earlier, but ye truly are an’ it’s when I remember tha’, see it renewed in a way, tha’ I realise ye’re not feeling trapped or unfulfilled in yer _role_. I’m jealous o’ tha’, lovey. How was I so lucky to have a man who truly feels the most fulfilled when he’s looking after my basic needs?  
  
Tha’s why, my darlin’, I can see this isn’t one o’ those happy moments. An’ when ye look up, I can see ye don’ appreciate my intereference in yer routine.  
  
“Baby? Is Juice still asleep?”  
“Aye. I’m jus’ restless.”  
“There’s coffee ready soon.”  
  
Tha’s yer way o’ telling me I can stay. Is it weird, this thing about the kitchen, the cooking? I’ve not actually been cooking anything more advanced than scrambled eggs an’ bacon since I lived on my own an’ I know tha’s jus’ not normal, but tha’s how we live an’ t’is only when I give room to voices who have no right to say shite about our marriage, tha’ I reflect on it. Spaces are important to us, especially ye, an’ tha’s in fact one o’ few things we dinnae learn the hard way.  
  
I smile at ye.  
  
“Sorry for intruding on ye, lovey. Jus’ couldna sleep.”  
“Watching me cook should remedy that.”  
  
Yer smile. Tha’ slight blush tha’ I know doesn’t really come from a good place, but is lingering from the day before an’ the encounter with yer demons. It was one of the worst ones ye’ve had in a long time, so bad ye couldna even cry an’ tha’s why I’m watching ye cook at this hour. Because when ye cannae cry after an episode like tha’, I’m not comfortable leaving ye alone. Not when I know how skilled yer hands are with tha’ knife.  
  
Juice felt it too, I could tell. Even in his sleep, he seemed to grab hold o’ ye in a way I’d call protective, possessive, even. Because  ye, sweet darlin’, my hero, my strenght in ways I think neither o’ us can really understand, had slipped away from us, fallen into tha’ hell where ye relive yer worst nightmares all over again an’ I wish I’d seen where ye were heading earlier on, but I dinnae an’ ye’re too smart, too caring, jus’ too bloody _logical_ to blame me for it. An’ so ye’re smiling, smiling until ye cannae even pretend it doesn’t hurt.  
  
I don’ think I’ll ever get used to see ye break like this. It’s so heartwrenching, nothing at all like the relief a spanking gives ye. It looks so small from the outside, a man slowly crying by the countertop, like in exhaustion, but it’s not. Ti’s grief. Grief an’ uncertainty, loss an’ a burden tha’ every once in a while, has been grinding ye down so slowly tha’ neither o’ us saw it until ye’re about to fall. I know tha’ there are things in yer past tha’ makes ye stronger than me, things I cannae imagine an’ tha’ I’d be unable to help Juice without them, without the way ye use yer wounds to heal him. I’m jus’ in charge, lovey, not yer hero, an’ this road we’re walking with our lover, has lead us into paths we dinnae intend to take.  
  
“Ronea…”  
  
Speaking yer name helps. I’ve not asked, but I suspect it’s because _he_ dinnae call ye tha’. Ron. Ronnie. I’ve used the first one on occasion, mostly if we’ve met a new lover or we’ve been out in a public place where ye don’ need another reason for people to stare at ye.  
  
Ronea. Song of joy in Hebrew. When I remove the knife it’s not because ye’re about to hurt yerself. I jus’ wannae hold ye an’ it’s in the way. The grief ye don’ have words for, doesn’t need any words for in this moment, is so overwhelming ye’re jus’ leaning into me, stiff an’ with hands a little sticky from the pineapple. Ye let me catch ye slowly before yer knees actually give in, an’ we sink down on the floor, joints cracking because we’re not young anymore an’ tha’s a bizarre thought in a way, because we weren’t old when our bodies started to give us lasting pain.  
  
Ye don’ need my words righ’ now. Ye’re not having a flashback, the pain isn’t new an’ no explanations are needed. So I cry too. I’m holding ye on the floor, our aging bodies in a pile of flesh an’ bones, jus’ hanging on. This is the closest I come to reach the parts o’ yer pain I can never truly understand. Yer tears coming from tha’ wound tha’ much like my scars will never heal. I’ve tried, so many times, to picture it, to catch jus’ a sliver o’ the agony ye lived through tha’ night. The fact tha’ I know it’s impossible has never stopped me, doesn’t stop me now.  
  
All I have is the framework. Details tha’ helps me paint a scenery, but it never becomes real. I know tha’ when ye’re thrown back into tha’ place, ye can sence the smells an’ tastes, every little sound is sharp, the exact pattern o’ the wall mirroring under yer eyelids. I know tha’ ye’re in mortal fear in those moments, tha’ yer brain is shattered an’ the now no longer exists. But yesterday ye dinnae relive it, jus’ remembered an’ this is the aftermath.  
  
This is where yer pain crosses roads with Juices. Somewhere I must’ve been prepared for this, because I feel completely calm. It’s probably more about exhaustion than control, my love, because I don’ know how to fix this an’ I’m crying in yer hair.  
  
I’m grieving too, lovey, ye know tha’, righ’? There’ve been many times in the past when I had to jus’ ride out an’ scream on the highway. Or tha’ time when I locked myself in the club’s wee gym to box the shite out o’ the sacks without gloves until I got bruises an’ ye never commented on them, jus’ brought out bags o’ ice an’ poured me a drink when I came home. I remember how I looked at yer scarred arms when ye handed me the ice an’ how I caught a look in yer eyes tha’ calmly said: _ye understand now?_  
  
Ye dinnae scold at me, dinnae point out the fact tha’ I’d done something tha’ reminded o’ wha’ I tried to stop ye from doing. Ye already knew why, understood it far too better than I did because ye’d spent so many years trying to bleed out the poison. It seeps out now, not through cuts or new scars, ye’ve learned to to use other tools a long time ago, but I understand, to the extent I can understand this at all, why the knives an’ lighters are so tempting.  
  
Because everytime ye’re drawing out the poison from this wound, the one tha’ maybe wont heal more than it already has, there's this gap where twentyfour years o’ healing process is wiped out, doesn’t exist, never happened. Our life together is erased, jus’ like tha’, an’ ye don’ see me because in this, _a thasgaid*_ , ye’re utterly alone an’ all I can do, is to stand on the other side, calling for ye, until ye no longer hear _him._ Until the shock o’ once again recalling how he almost had ye killed, how close it actually was an’ how he dinnae mean it, dinnae even consider the possibility, jus’ happened to come back in time because he’d forgotten something an’ it wasn’t ye. He saved yer life in the same way he almost took it, completely careless, an’ afterwards, he expected ye to be grateful.  
  
So I follow ye into yer nightmare, as far as I’m allowed. I take yer tears tha’ are getting wilder now, unleashed from a darkness I cannae picture. But I can hold ye while ye face it, lovey, an’ I will. Let the world shatter, my love, because even when I cannae reach ye, I’ll never let ye go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *my darling


	54. Ronea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Daddy is… cooking.”  
> “What?”
> 
> Good Lord, I've had this chapter done for days and completely forgotten to post it. I'm on a little vacation trip and things are a bit messy, so even Filip seems to be in the wrong place :p

“Papi? Papi, wake up…”  
  
The voice was as soft as the hand on his cheek. Ronea slowly opened half an eye and saw two huge brown ones gazing back.  
  
“Baby boy… What time is it?”  
“Bout three, I think.”  
“At… night?”  
  
Ronea felt disoriented and the boy shook his head.  
  
“Afternoon, Papi. You’ve slept all day.”  
“Shit…”  
  
Usually, Ronea didn’t curse as much with Juice in this vulnerable state and the boy actually looked surprised and then giggled.  
  
“I’ll tell Daddy you said a bad word, Papi.”  
“You do that, sweetheart. Where is Daddy, by the way?”  
“Uhm…”  
“Yes?”  
  
Ronea knew he rose his eyebrows and Juice bit his lip.  
  
“Daddy is… cooking.”  
“What?”  
“Just a little bit, Papi! You needed to sleep and… we got hungry. P-please, don’t yell at him?”  
  
The stutter caught Ronea’s still sleepy attention and he calmed down, almost on cue, smiling at the boy and sank back down on the pillow. Juice didn’t need to be railed up for nothing and Ronea took his hand, finding it was a lot harder to squeeze than usual.  
  
“I wont, sweet boy. Papi just feels a little lost and heavy in the head right now, so could you be my good boy and tell Daddy I’m awake, okay?”  
“Yes, Papi.”  
“Don’t run down the stairs.”  
“I wont, Papi!”  
“And please, don’t…”  
“Daddy!”  
“…yell.”  
  
Ronea rolled his eyes as Juice, deaf to advices, ran downstairs, calling for Filip.   
  
“Daddy!”  
“Wha’s with the running an’ yelling, lad? Is there a fire?”  
“Papi is awake!”  
“An’ since when is tha’ an excuse for running down the stairs an’ shouting?”  
“But he wants you to come!”  
“Is he breathing, lad?”  
“Uhm… yes. Of course, Daddy.”  
“An’ is he bleeding?”  
“No…?”  
“Is there a fire?”  
“No…”  
“An attacker coming through the window?”  
“No, Daddy!”  
“Then why, Juice Ortiz, are ye running an’ yelling like a banshee? We don’ live in a barn, lad.”  
  
The stern but not at all harsh scolding made Ronea smile and shake his head, instantly regretting the movement when a throb of pain jolted from the neck up to his temples. There was a wave of nausea, but only a short one and not too intense.  His eyes felt sore as well.  
  
“Darlin’…? Ye’re awake?”  
“That running and yelling could rise the dead, Filip…”  
“Sorry, lovey. How are ye feeling?”  
“Sore. And a bit thirsty.”  
  
Filip nodded and turned to Juice.  
  
“Please, go get Papi some water, lad. _Without running_.”  
“Yes, Daddy. Sorry.”  
  
Juice left, this time considerably slower and without thumping and Filip smiled and shook his head.  
  
“He’s been good all morning, lovey, but I think he’s been still an’ quiet for too long. He’s barely left yer side…”  
“What happened, baby?”  
“Ye don’ remember?”  
“Only that it was… rough.”  
“Aye… It was.”  
  
Filip looked pained and he stroked Ronea’s cheek very softly, as if there was a risk the skin would break.  
  
“Ye cried.”  
“And?”  
  
His husband sighed.  
  
“Tha’s it. Ye jus’ cried, Ronea. Not seen ye cry like tha’ in…”  
  
A helpless gesture and Ronea understood. He searched for Filip’s hand, just needed to touch it, feeling his strenght.  
  
“I couldna reach ye in time…”  
  
It wasn’t Filip’s fault, or his. It was no one’s fault but the PTSD and the one who’d caused it but Ronea knew there were limits for how much reason could rule even Filip’s very logical mind. He squeezed the rough hand with what little strenght he had and smiled.  
  
“But I’m still here, Filip. I came back again, like always.”  
  
His husband nodded now, and finally there was a smile, small as though it was.  
  
“Aye. Aye, ye did…”


	55. Juice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baby boy is bored...

Papi needed to be cheered up. Sure, Daddy watched over him as a hawk, but it was boring to be bedridden and especially for Papi now, since he was too tired to read. Having Papi in bed – or the couch – like this without books was cruel, really, and his headache made movies or music unthinkable as well.  
  
Juice watched Papi from the playmat. Daddy was doing some kind of household chores or something and honestly, it wasn’t only Papi who was bored right now. It was difficult to play quietly and Juice was in no mood for more colourbooks or puzzles. Or Disney movies. He sighed.  
  
“Is that a pout I’m seeing, baby boy?”  
“Don’t know what to do, Papi.”  
“You’re tired of playing with Mr. Bunny?”  
“Yeah.”  
“How about a movie?”  
“Seen all, Papi. _A million times._ ”  
  
Yes, he was a little dramatic, but it made Papi laugh.  
  
“Is that so, sweetheart?”  
“Is, Papi.”  
“Uh-huh. And I bet you’ve solved all the puzzles too and made enough pictures to cover the entire fridge?”  
“Have too, Papi. _And_ the excercises _and_  went potty too.”  
  
Sure, that was before lunch, but still. It didn’t hurt to brag a little and it was, after all, true. He’d been a good boy all day but he was getting restless now and Daddy hadn’t had time to play. Papi seemed to catch that and gave his teasing little smile.  
  
“And Daddy is boring and Papi has been sleeping and so our baby is bored, huh?”  
“Mr. Bunny says _go outside_ , Papi.”  
“I bet he does. And what does Daddy say?”  
“To wait…”  
  
He definitely pouted, but it had been boring and Papi waking up was like the best thing since breakfast. Then he remembered Papi was tired and sat down next to the couch to snuggle up against him a bit. Papi sighed and bent into his neck a little.  
  
“Papi sad...?”  
“A little, baby boy.”  
“Because they were _mean_ to Papi.”  
  
It was hard to remember what Daddy had told him, what Papi had let him know about it, but even if Juice hadn’t seen when Papi got hurt, not then and not this morning or yesterday, he could feel it. Not literally, of course, but there was this sense of… connection, or something akin to it, that had started to show up of late.   
  
He wasn’t capable of recalling _when_ the desire to be of help had lead him to believe that distance was the answer, it seemed like a different life, another time, and trying to imagine staying away from Papi and Daddy was… well, impossible, really. But even if it was too difficult to see how and when that desire had changed him, Juice still reckognized the feeling itself.  
  
The desire to comfort. That’s what you felt with people you cared for, people you loved. You wanted them to feel good, you got worried and sad when they got hurt. You needed to make them smile again. It wasn’t until now that Juice realised he’d not thought about him being absent from Daddy and Papi as a good thing for _them_ in a long time. He laid his head onto Papi’s arm, still more or less clinging his hand and pulled the comforting scent of him into his nose.  
  
“Wan’ you to be happy again, Papi… Juice wanna see you smile…”


	56. Filip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daddy has a plan. Sorta...

“Hey, ye’re not here for a scolding, loveys.”  
  
His lads looked, not uncomfortable exactly, but a little tense and Filip realised he’d been pacing back and forth by the fireplace. He straddled the small stool that was surprisingly comfortable, perhaps because with this position it reminded a wee bit about riding and he folded his hands. Ronea was sitting up now, had been for a little while since lunch and had wrapped a blanket around his shoulders, with Juice back in his lap. Filip sighed.  
  
“No one’s done anything wrong, okay? This isn’t a confession or spanking.”  
“Pity.”  
  
Filip just rose his eyebrows at his husband little snark and Ronea immediately lifted his hands in an apologetic gesture.  
  
“That was rude of me, Filip. I’m sorry.”  
“Thank ye, darlin’.”  
  
He more than well understood Ronea’s need to lighten the situation some and even with their well-defined rules about respect, Filip knew the comment wasn’t meant to be disrespectful, but simply his now quite frail husband’s way of trying to feel less vulnerable. Perhaps also for Juice’s sake. The lad, how ever, seemed less worried and more, well, surprised by the interference in the routine.  
  
Filip smiled at them, not just to soothe any worries that he was about to punish them for something, but to try and enforce that _his_ worry wasn’t the issue here. That he had the control they had the right to expect from him. And sometimes, that meant admitting when it wasn’t as clear as it should be. Filip sighed, but kept smiling.  
  
“This… Oh, darlins…”  
  
He made a little gesture and a tired laugh left him.  
  
“Ye’re both so strong, ye know tha’? I know ye don’ feel it, aye, an’ tha’ it might feel, I don’ know, rude or tonedeaf o’ me to say it, but I really mean it. This isn’t me trying to jus’ make ye feel better or pretending tha’ we’re not going through rough times now. Ye know tha’s not my thing.”  
“We know, Filip.”  
“Yeah, Daddy.”  
  
Both Ronea and Juice looked and sounded calm, trusting, and the lad’s little “yeah” instead of the normally required “yes”, didn’t seem like disrespect or disinterest to Filip. The huge brown eyes, on the contrary, looked wonderfully clear and trusting right now and that was and always would be, far more important than the linguistic technicalities of their obedience contract. Especially with the territory Filip was entering.  
  
“I’m very grateful for yer trust, I know ye know tha’ as well. An’ I know tha’, especially in the last few days, both o’ ye have experienced a lot o’ increased pain.”  
  
He swallowed, realising he was squeezing his hands together and looked down.  
  
“Ye’re not the same, my loveys, I’m very much aware o’ tha’, an’ o’ the fact tha’ I’ve been with ye Ronea for twentyfour years an’ only about a year with ye, Juicy. In a way, ti’s a huge difference, an’ in another, there’s really none at all. Because I love ye both jus’ a much, only in a bit different ways, but time means nothing in _tha’_ sense. T’is only a measure o’ how well I know yer demons.”  
  
None of his loveys spoke yet, just listened with faces that didn’t reveal any hint of wanting to run or shutting down or even answering. Their focus was absolute and they weren’t on edge. Ronea was holding Juice in a protective embrace, but not locking him down at all and the lad was leaning back onto his Papi’s chest, not giving any sign of being ready to escape. It made Filip want to cry, but he had an obligation to stay focused, to be the balance his little family relied on, especially in situations like this.  
  
“I know there are… places where I cannae follow either o’ ye…”  
  
His throat felt thick and he had to look at them without really focusing.  
  
“I’ve been trying to keep up with it all, loveys. T’is a bloody rollercoster an’ I’m not the one suffering the most o’ it, by any standards. Obedience an’ following doctor’s orders is one thing, but I cannae make ye talk to me an’ I’ve done the mistake o’ trying to force ye to do tha’ in the past, which is something I regret an’ wont try again.”  
“You just wanted to help, Filip. We know that.”  
  
Filip smiled at his husband.  
  
“Aye, an’ I know tha’ ye know tha’ I know tha’, lovey. As long as yer demons keep shut, the two o’ ye are exceptionally reasonable lads.”  
  
There was a scoff from Ronea and a weak little laughter from Juice, neither disrespectful, but Filip rose his eyebrows.  
  
“I’m not joking, lads. Ye can laugh at the situation as much as ye wannae, if it helps, I’m not gonnae argue with tha’, but even if ye have a hard time taking my words to heart righ’ now, I need ye to know tha’ I’m completely serious, alright?”  
“Yes, Filip.”  
“Yes, Daddy.”  
  
Filip nodded at them. They were still all on track, thank God.  
  
“I feel like, in the past days, tha’ ye’re both getting completely overwhelmed by yer feelings at times. This isn’t yer fault in _any_ way an’ I’m not saying tha’ ye should be able to control them better, ye understand? Ti’s merely an observation an’ if ye think I’m wrong, I’d like to hear ye tell me tha’.”  
  
Ronea shook his head softly but Juice seemed tense again, clutching the stuffed bunny a bit. It was difficult to tell how “old” he felt at the moment. Filip tilted his head.  
  
“Juicy?”  
“Yes, Daddy?”  
“Can ye please look at Daddy, lil’ one?”  
“Are you scared, baby boy?”  
  
Ronea rubbed the lads arms a bit, nuzzling his hair and Juice curled into his chest, clearly unable to meet his Daddy’s gaze.  
  
“T’is alright, laddie. If ye cannae look at Daddy righ’ now, tha’s fine, Juicy. I’m not demanding it, lovey, an’ ye’re not naughty.”  
  
Juice looked up then, still clutching his stuffy and his eyes were scared. Filip reached out a hand.  
  
“I love ye so much, lil’ one an’ I’m so proud o’ ye. Ye’re fighting every day, I can see tha’, an’ I feel truly proud an’ humbled for tha’ trust. As I do for yers, Ronea.”  
“I know, baby. Juice, sweetheart, do you think Daddy is right about your feelings? That they’ve overwhelmed you more than usual lately?”  
“Yes, Papi. They do. I… I know they do.”  
  
Scared or not, he spoke clearly and there was no uncertainty about it. Juice definitely had words for _that_ , the confirmation that he was enough aware of some of his difficulties to define them a bit, which was really good. Filip rubbed a thumb on the back of the lad’s hand.  
  
“Good. _Very good_ , Juicy. Oh... not tha’ yer feelings overhelm ye, of course, but tha’ ye reckognize it an’ help me by telling. Tha’s a _really_ good thing, lil’ one.”  
  
Oh, God, the beaming… Filip sometimes wondered if there was an actual, physical thing called heartbreak, because the way his young, broken lover beamed, really lifted his face like a withered little flower in sunny rain, sucking every drop of nourishment given, as if Filip’s words were all he needed to open up, was a heartbreaking sight.  
  
Juice had never learned how to control that hunger, because he was so used to starvation and Filip suddenly realised, that all the good things Juice had been given a taste of in the past, had kept him balancing on a high-wire more or less his entire life. There hadn’t been any real resting place, probably since the nuns when he was a toddler, and he’d never dared to trip and fall in either direction. Always hungry, never satisfied and when he got the chance, the hunger took control and tipped the scale.  
  
Filip looked into the huge, puppylike eyes that, when you looked closer, weren’t those of a pup at all, but of a tough, old back alley cat who simply kept going, deceitfully weak when you saw it, but with claws sharped to perfection. The wild thing you couldn’t ask how it had survived, because it didn’t know. There had never been a time and place for that kind of reflection, just for survival and as so many kids surviving a traumatic childhood, the people who had no idea how it felt like, wouldn’t get an answer, because the only option left would’ve been to give up and die. Living and surviving were one and same for kids like Juice and the only resting places temporal and never expected.  
  
Now, since this little game had started and turned into something a lot more serious and rewarding for all three of them, Juice’s old scale had tipped completely and the hunger was unleashed. The lad had literally lost that control, his main survival tool really, and the tough alley cat was left without claws and teeth. Not domesticated, only completely exhausted and with enough trust scraped together to dare showing the belly.  
  
Filip swallowed. It was hard to remain composed when thinking about this and he hated that he, in order to help his lad – and his husband – had to cause more pain, unintentional as it was.  
  
“I know there is no easy way o’ talking about this an’ I don’ have the tools to… well… address it properly, loveys, so I ask tha’ ye have patience with me, alrigh’? If I’m doing this the wrong way, ye tell me an’ there’ll be no punishments for tones or bad words.”  
“What is it that you wanna talk about, Filip?”  
  
Ronea seemed more confused than worried and Filip sighed. He had to do this, no matter how fast his heart was beating and how dry his mouth was. He forced himself to look at his lads and took a deep breath.  
  
“I wannae talk about the rapes.”


	57. Ronea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ronea dives into the abyss... more or less willingly...

There were so many social codes, Ronea thought. Some were good, others annoying and useless and a lot were simply unhealthy, at least in the long run. The polite ignoring of an abused neighbor wife who wore sunglasses on grey autumn days and long sleeves at the beach. The merciful gazes moving away from wrapped wrists, dilated pupils and corrosive injuries on fingers and teeth. The desperate attempts to pretend the elephant in the room could be starved to death when, in fact, it fed off ignorance. And silence.  
  
Yes, the social codes were many and his husband knew them, but the way he broke them, was… well, Ronea had honestly never gotten used to how Filip broke _that_ silence. How he seemed incapable of choosing lesser words to soothe the situation. He wanted to talk about the rapes, because they _were_ rapes and to use another word would, in Filip’s eyes, be an attempt to avoid the issue, to make it sound like something else. So, he smashed the social code, left it in shatters and would concern about them later. And as brutal as the experience often was, in the end, Ronea loved his husband for it.  
  
“These flashbacks an’ panic attacts ye’ve had of late, they’re different, my darlins, an’ I’ve realised tha’ ye two have started to trigger each other’s personal memories. Ye can relate to some o’ the other’s pain in an way I cannae.”  
  
Filip rubbed a hand over his face now, this was clearly very hard for him.  
  
“See… loveys, I can grasp being terrified o’ a drunken, violent da an’ I had a lot o’ flashbacks an’ nightmares  after I was slashed an’ I can understand how it is when people stare at yer scars an’ all, but I’ll _never_ pretend tha’ I understand shite about being starved an’ locked in a cellar, or being beaten, kicked an’ ignored on a regular basis. I have no experience wha’ so ever o’ a relationship with someone trying to break me an’ no one ever burned my stuff or shaved my head to humiliate me. An’ I… I’ve never been assaulted like… I’ve never been raped.”  
  
Juice tensed a little and Ronea gently stroked his chest and kissed his hair, showing it wasn’t dangerous. They needed this conversation and Ronea, to his own surprise, felt calm right now. Filip had initiated this, _he_ took full responsibility for the outcome and Ronea and Juice could stop this if they really wanted to. Wanted, as in needed, really, not as in getting out of it and Ronea looked at his husband.  
  
“May I ask you something, Filip?”  
“Of ocurse, lovey.”  
“Just so it’s clear… we’re not getting out if this conversation, right? Either we have it now, or later, but eventually, it’s gonna happen?”  
  
It wasn’t really a question, Ronea realised, but more of a confirmation. They’d never really made a rule or promise about this particular subject with Juice. You simply couldn’t do that so early on and especially not with someone as damaged and controlled as Juice. They’d not been together long enough for that kind of commitment, but with the last weeks events… Could one really say that time mattered as in a more conventional relationship?  
  
Filip looked a little frustrated, not with Ronea, but with the situation, with the pain that inevitably would come and then he nodded.  
  
“Aye. If… if we’re gonnae keep this relationship healthy an’ keep moving forward together, I believe tha’ we must address this on a deeper level an’ tha’ includes for ye to open up more about the things I cannae understand. An’ not jus’ for me, but most o’ all for ye. Because wha’ happened to ye, shouldna control yer lives more than it must. I don’ do this to make ye feel more vulnerable, loveys, or to relive the trauma, but to try an’ make ye not so bloody alone.”  
“And you feel alone too, don’t you, Filip?”  
  
Ronea spoke before realising it and he blushed because while he didn’t mean to be rude, it probably came off as that. Filip, how ever, just nodded.  
  
“Aye, lovey. I do. I… I wannae help ye, wannae understand ye to the best o’ my abilities an’ most o’ all, I jus’ cannae stand seeing any o’ ye in so much pain an’ knowing I _might_ be able to do at least _something_ more than I can now, to ease it, only not doing it. An’ unfortunately, I don’ think I can do tha’ without getting to know yer demons a bit more.”  
  
In other words, talking about the horrible shit openly as a trio. What was the social code for that?  
  
A ridiculous question, because the thing with the most important shit, was that there was no code, nothing that would make it smooth and easy and Ronea decided to spare his husband at least one part of the agony of being the only one to address the subject head on. He rubbed Juice’s chest a little more, relaxing him.  
  
“You want us to talk about our rapists, Filip. About Aaron and…”  
  
That wasn’t his secret to tell, not his name to drop and even if it was, Ronea didn’t know the name. Perhaps Juice didn’t have it either. The fragmented memories pulled out through nightmares and flashbacks hadn’t revealed it.  
  
Juice whined softly, like a wounded and exhausted animal and Ronea could feel the sore chest heaving a little too strained. His boy wanted to run and this one Filip couldn’t help with. Not alone.  
  
Ronea closed his arms a little tighter around his boy, rocking him back and forth.  
  
“It’s okay, baby boy. It really is, I promise. I know it might feel as if you’re gonna break or falling off a cliff or just… I know exactly how fucking scary it is to look the beast in the eye, Juicy. You’ve seen Papi having flashbacks, baby boy. Moments when Papi doesn’t remember he’s safe and loved, when he… When _I_ see Aaron again. Aaron, my ex, who raped me.”


	58. Juice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Then I’m seventeen, or twenty again and wondering, for real, if this is it… If this time… I’m actually dying… "
> 
> What doesn't kill you, may still keep hurting you.

“It’s so weird… Sometimes I can go around for weeks and not thinking about it. I can hear doors opening like he used to, can hear music he listened to and I don’t react. Can even see whips and riding crops and I don’t notice them any more than other stuff…”  
  
Papi’s voice was low and a little serene. He smiled without directing it to anyone, his eyes seemed fixed on a point invisible to Juice and Daddy.  
  
“I still have days when I try to convince myself that it was consensual, even after all this time.”  
  
The smile got twisted, self-ironic and almost nasty.  
  
“Unfortunately, spankings don’t fix this.”  
  
Juice swallowed.  
  
“Did… did Aaron spank you like… like Daddy does?”  
“No. Well, I guess if you just take the mere practical part, there are a _few_ similarities, but no, I can’t say it’s a fair comparison at all. You know how Daddy always takes us across his lap, holding us close through the whole process?”  
“Uh-huh.”  
  
Papi made a little grimaze.  
  
“Aaron either put me over a bench with cuffs or chained me at a St. Andrew’s cross. But that’s of course something some people, some subs truly enjoy too. It’s not a bad thing if you consent.”  
“But you didn’t?”  
“To some of it, but not all.”  
“That’s why…”  
  
He wasn’t sure if he should say it, but Daddy nodded and Papi gave an encouraging look.  
  
“Go on, baby boy. It’s okay. _I’m_ okay.”  
“The handcuffs… You… that’s why you and Daddy never use handcuffs. Or whips.”  
“Yes.”  
  
Papi looked down now, opening his mouth a little, then closing it and then gazing up the roof. His Adam’s apple moved, eyelashes too still and it looked like he was hurting, physically. Daddy’s eyebrows were furrowed and he took Papi’s hand.  
  
“Ronea? Husband?”  
  
There was a very small startle, almost as if Papi had been caught before slipping into a flashback and when he closed his eyes, there were tears.   
  
“He never held me… Not while he punished me and not after. He… he could only hold me when I couldn’t see him, from behind or in sleep. He never wanted to… be intimate if he saw my face…”  
  
A week laughter, wetness breaking from the eyelashes.  
  
“For almost four years, I just thought I was an ugly fuck. You know like doing all the wrong faces and moves and making cringy sounds in bed. So I… I learned to stay quiet but unfortunately, he liked me being loud… at least if I was in pain, or even better, panicking… I’ve accepted I will never get rid of _his_ face or his voice, or his hands completely… They don’t show up nearly as often nowadays, Juicy, but when they do… then… Then I’m seventeen, or twenty again and wondering, for real, if this is it… If _this time_ … I’m actually dying… Sorry, I… I have to…”  
  
Papi is gentle but fast and moves Juice off his lap to run, not away, but to the bathroom. Daddy follows, of course, but he’s not saying anything and Juice realises neither is he. He can hear Papi’s cramped sounds of nausea from the bathroom but what breaks his heart when he walks inside, is the way Daddy holds Papi’s hair.   
  
It’s such a familiar and in a way almost teenage like gesture, reminding Juice of the countless parties he attended to when he’d finally fled the last foster home and desperately tried to find a place where he’d belong – or at least could get a break from the loneliness and his spinning head. Images of other broken teens, of girls who’s bodies couldn’t cope with the same amount of cheap beer and bad moonshine as the guys and how maybe, if they were lucky, someone held their hair back in moments like this. When whatever shit they needed to shut off to get a moment of feeling as close to normal as was even possible for lost cases like them, brutally reminded them that their bodies were still those of the children they’d never had a chance to be.  
  
Almost twentyfour years… He just keeps looking at the men on the floor and he realises that when Papi was on that cross, Juice was seven years old and had learned the hard way that tears didn’t help. The number of foster homes he’s lived through, or rather survived, is just crazy and while he remembers smells, hands and the darkness, the faces are too many to keep apart. Papi’s cramps by the toilet has one face, one pair of eyes and that’s enough for his body to forget they’re no longer watching.  
  
Juice walks closer, lowering down onto his knees. Papi’s tummy is still hurting, moving in cramps under the shirt. The way it’s curving should’ve been beautiful, had it been in bed, with either Daddy or Juice face down between Papi’s legs, but this is just pain, an old, infected one that’s not going away, made of wood and leather or bricks, of blood and sweat and it peaks when your body shatters from within, because there’s simply nothing that can prepare you for _that_ shock.   
  
It’s not supposed to hurt. Not like that. This isn’t nervousness or clumsiness, it’s not the breathy, awkward attempt of unexperienced lovers in a dark corner. It’s not a man asking to be cuffed by someone he trusts.   
  
_Orson… He wasn’t there, he didn’t watch. He just saw you when you finally made it back home with a slight limp and dirty clothes, a partly blank memory and the pain that can’t be named. You’re stumbling inside, the huge mirror on the hallway wall says it all and you’ve become so good at pretending, ignoring, that you manage not to reckognize the boy with half his face bruised and scraped from bricks_.  
_  
His lip no longer has a crust of dried blood, the nose is swollen but the stranger who helped him to the hospital made sure he got help quickly. With the visible part. He refused to take his pants off and took advantage of how busy the poor staff was. He has a prescription for strong painkillers of some sort and a salve in his pocket, that is, if Orson will pay for it. Maybe he will, if it’s the best option for him. Juan has no option._  
  
_Did Aaron pay?_  
  
Juice moves to Papi’s other side, the one not occupied by Daddy. This pain… Juice knows it, _some_ of it, all too well. His memories still have hands, voices and faces too. And what doesn’t kill you, still keeps hurting. 


	59. Filip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He’s done this so many times, but never with another partner present like this. Sure, there have been occasions when friends or hospital staff or even complete strangers downtown have seen and sometimes helped, sometimes made it worse, but in the end, Filip has always felt so alone."

The only pain Filip has ever intentionally inflicted on his husband, is the kind Ronea not only wants and literally asks for, but craves. That thing hasn’t changed at all during their long years together and neither has the importance of comfort and aftercare. Filip just sits on the hard bathroom floor with his husband, holding him from one side and feeling their sweet, gentle lover do the same from the other. They’re both holding one of the men they love.  
  
The lad understands lot more than Filip and the illogical pinch of jealousy hurts because it’s so wrong to feel jealous over shared pain and he knows it. Feeling excluded from something terrible you never ever wanted your loved ones, or any person really, to live through, is just sick, right? Filip is used to feeling excluded from Ronea because of the demons standing in the way and he knows that the psychologist all those years ago was told things in confidence that Filip has no right or need to know about, but he’s never seen someone else grab hold of Ronea and join him in the pain like Juice does now.   
  
“It’s okay, Papi… You want some water?”  
  
A weak nod and Filip realises he’s been as stuck as his husband and lover on the floor, so he moves on stiff legs to get the cup of water and wet the towel he should’ve thought about in the first place.   
  
“You’re safe now, Papi… W-we’re both safe, right? Daddy’s p-protecting us.”  
  
Juice understands more than Filip does, yes, but he still needs his Daddy and Ronea very much needs his husband in this bleak moment. Just because he can’t save them from their pasts, it doesn’t mean he can’t do anything at all. Life is never that black and white and Filip feels how the nasty feeling of exclusion fades away and is replaced by gratitude.   
  
Once, many years ago, that would’ve felt even worse, but the life with Ronea has taught Filip patience with his own feelings as well. For a very long time, it was so difficult to remember that it wasn’t gratitude for seeing Ronea beaten into exhaustion from his demons, but for being allowed to stay with him, to follow him as far as permitted down the pits of hell. And the appreciation for the light and air once you’re climbing back up again, has never faded. To not feel gratitude in those moments, when your loved one can breathe again, would be grotesquely inhuman.  
  
The pile of human flesh on the floor is Filip’s heart, his lungs and his whole reason to live. Both of them are that reason, but Ronea will always be his first, his only _husband_ and right now their lover is holding his Papi, while Filip dabs the sweaty, pale face leaning onto Juice’s shoulder.  
  
He’s done this so many times, but never with another partner present like this. Sure, there have been occasions when friends or hospital staff or even complete strangers downtown have seen and sometimes helped, sometimes made it worse, but in the end, Filip has always felt so alone. He’s not feeling sorry for himself, he certainly doesn’t blame Ronea one bit, but even with the shit Venus went through as a kid that Tig in his own way has helped her deal with, it’s not the same.   
  
Although you simply can’t compare pain like that, Filip still thinks as he gently cools the flushed skin, that isn’t that how most people do, in order to survive? Comparing. If you know that people have survived something even worse than you or your loved ones and manage to _live_ , not happily ever after, but happier than they thought was possible, happier than you are in your lesser pain, isn’t that the comfort that’s required?   
  
It’s taken a very long time and Filip isn’t daft enough to think he saw this coming or had any plans for it, but it makes sense that  this is the point where Ronea and Juice can meet. Filip isn’t part of that meeting, he’s merely the spot, the location and sure, the transport to said location, but he’s an outsider here, in many ways. Not a passive spectator or intruder, but he’s not the guide either and that’s a loss of control he must accept, along with the feeling of guilt for using the agreement of obedience to make his husband talk about the core of his nightmares.  
  
“G-got you, Papi. Daddy got you… Love you s-so much, Papi… S’okay, Daddy, h-he’s gonna b-be okay…”  
  
It takes a moment before Filip realises it’s not Ronea’s hand that’s holding his in a firm grip and that it’s not Ronea’s or Juice’s tears wettening his cheeks. It’s the top, the dominant, the head of the household that’s crying now and the two subs, those who need his strenght, his stability the most, who’re holding him together.


	60. Ronea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dad usually hadn’t much patience for tears, never had and especially not boys’ tears, but he’d actually laid down on the bed with Ronea, holding him and, for the first time in years, been the safety again. He’d not been impatient or judgemental but let Ronea cry in his arms while stroking his shoulders, not saying anything really, just remained there and been the adult, the dad who had room in his arms for a boy who no longer was little, but still his son."

Only two people have heard about it, up until this day. Filip and Tara Knowles. And now they’re three. There is no definite right or wrong when it comes to PTSD, Knowles used to say and she was right about that. It’s chaos, it’s a hydra who can grow out two new heads when you’re cutting one off. You can’t control it, only handle it and sometimes you’ll succeed, other times failing miserably. And you can’t do it all on your own.  
  
One of the worst things, really the hardest one to accept, is how long it takes, how severe the reactions can get and how difficult it still is to put words to it. There’s a shame connected to that, one that Ronea feels deeply, because it’s so hard not to compare and when people can survive entire wars with horrible experiences they’ll never forget and still live normal lives, it’s often felt embarressing, pathetic and fucking weak that those hours with the wooden cross, cuffs, whips and a cock you didn’t want in you, can partly lock you up inside for twentyfour years.  
  
They’re both holding him now, his loved ones. The man and the boy, his husband and his lover, the two humans that have become _his_ , each in their own way. Filip is still crying, Juice is holding his Daddy’s hand, stroking the back of it with his thumb. He’s so calm, his baby boy, his sweet lover, this broken man who doesn’t see how he’s constantly picking up the shatters of himself after every crash, trying to put them back together and keep moving.  
  
Survival. That’s Juice’s default set-up. Not living, that’s another thing, but survival. Ronea knows how that feels, God how he knows and wished he didn’t, but there’s a key difference. His survival mode didn’t take over until he was in his late teens and Aaron started to show another side than the initial nice guy he wasn’t. As Juice holds him now, Ronea is keenly aware that unlike Juice, he had an actual childhood with love and comfort, with safety and support. He lived, he was loved and while mom is dead and dad is now too religious and has always been too much of a traditional man to give in to this messy, irrational stuff with open feelings or, God forbid, self-perception, Fred Tully loves his son.  
  
Yes, no matter how non-existing any actual relationship is in the practical sense, and no matter how many pamphlets about conversional therapy Fred has sent over the years, he’s also sent the birthday cards and the nameday cards, each of them with a cat motive and never two of the same. There have never been any preachings or Bible quotes or anything like that on them, just the _“happy birthday/happy nameday Ronea, love, dad”_ and that’s why they’re all kept in a nice box in Ronea’s drawer, carefully collected so no one will disappear while cleaning or sorting stuff.  
  
It’s been many years since they met and they’ll most likely never be close, but these two annual cards, for his birthday and nameday and then the Christmas card addressed to both him and Filip with a very formal _Merry Christmas/Fred_ , and the “love” and the “dad” excluded, still mean something. They’re Fred Tully’s way of saying that he loves his wayward, sinful son and always will, no matter what and as the years have gone by, Ronea has accepted the situation, sad and fucked up as it is.   
  
Dad knows close to nothing about the abuse or the rapes, of course he doesn’t. Filip has informed him on occasion, in the beginning of their marriage when the PTSD sometimes forced Ronea to actually go to a psychiatric ward for a few days and nights, but only in vague terms. Ronea knows that dad blamed Filip for it, raving about how their “immoral lifestyle” and “mocking of holy matrimony” was the cause of it and how this “permanent sin” would only make it worse.   
  
Ronea is pretty sure that if dad knew what Aaron did, he’d truly believe that the rape turned his son gay. On the other hand, he most likely wouldn’t think that Ronea _deserved_ it and along with the cards, the “love” and the “dad”, that’s the love a 75 years old Fred Tully is capable of giving and that’s enough for Ronea to love him back. He gave him life, after all, and despite his many faults, he’s never been malicious, just incapable of introspection and handling emotions.   
  
Mom, on the other hand… Ronea almost smiles against his husband’s chest, when thinking about Elizabeth Tully who, had she known about what Aaron did, would’ve killed him. Literally. Although Ronea was raised with spankings like almost every kid back in the 70’s, there was never any intentional abuse and mom never did that part. Dad could give a slap in the face for disrespect and wouldn’t hesitate to take Ronea over his lap or, when he grew older, bend him down onto the bed to whack him with the belt.    
  
The last time that happened, Ronea was sixteen and mom had been dead for two months. He’d been out drinking and dad was furious when he came back at dawn. Ronea hadn’t cried in front of him since the funeral and certainly not during an ass whooping since he was thirteen, but that early morning, when he was drunk and a little high, still in shock from the loss of mom and dad not just punished him but seemed to just take out as much of any general frustration as possible on his ass, he’d cried.  
  
Dad hadn’t noticed at first, being set on giving his son a memorable lesson about curfews and weed, but he’d used much more force than ever before and it wasn’t until Ronea actually begged him to stop, that he seemed aware of just how harsh it was. It hadn’t been on bare ass, thank God, but in retrospect, maybe that would’ve been better despite the embarressment, because dad clearly hadn’t realised how much force he’d used.  
  
He’d stopped then and walked away, not saying anything or closing the door to Ronea’s room. He just left, walked downstairs and, judging by the sound, opened a can of beer before heading outside to move the lawn. Ronea had stayed as he was, ass burning under the jeans and face buried in the pillow, just crying until he physically couldn’t produce any more tears. He’d whimpered for mom who wasn’t there, who was gone and couldn’t comfort him anymore.  
  
Mom, who never would’ve allowed this in the first place and, if she saw him now, she would hold him, stroke his hair and tell him that it would be okay, that even if he messed up and did stupid things, she and dad still loved him. Then, when she’d comforted him for a while, she’d go downstairs to scare the living shit out of her husband.  
  
But mom wasn’t there, she was dead and without her, dad was lost and unable to realise it. He had a life crises he didn’t know about, because he was a _man_ who lived as a _man_ , did things as a _man_ and therefor mourned like one. No place for reflection, just heading forward even if there was no movement, just stamping on the same spot while the time passed by and made it look like you were heading somewhere.  
  
Ronea had remained on the bed even after he’d stopped crying, just staring into the wall and waiting for the burn to ease. Eventually, he’d fallen into an exhausted nap and when he woke up, dad was sitting on the bed, stroking his hair.  
  
Dad had never been very physical when it came to affections, but the hand felt good because it had been a long time since he’d touched Ronea at all, if you didn’t count the whooping and it was a strange but soothing feeling, no anger or frustration just… an awkward man trying to comfort his son without really knowing how. There’ d been a mumbled “sorry” and “I went too hard on you” and then the “I got so worried, Ronea… I thought something… you can’t scare me like that…”  
  
He’d not finished the sentence, but Ronea understood. Dad, being who he was, tried to say that he overreacted, that he realised he’d went too far and that maybe he was aware in some way that he was scared he’d loose his only kid too. It was still unfair, still irrational and, no matter if you were in favour of spanking kids or not, way too rough. Ronea’s entire ass and upper thighs were badly bruised and yes, dad had spanked him plenty before, but never ever left bruises and along with the physical pain, there was a fear now that Ronea hadn’t felt before, not while mom lived. He’d started crying again, unable to control himself.  
  
Dad usually hadn’t much patience for tears, never had and especially not boys’ tears, but he’d actually laid down on the bed with Ronea, holding him and, for the first time in years, been the safety again. He’d not been impatient or judgemental but let Ronea cry in his arms while stroking his shoulders, not saying anything really, just remained there and been the adult, the dad who had room in his arms for a boy who no longer was little, but still his son. It’s still one of the saddest things Ronea can think of: the grown man who knows how to love, but not how to show it.  
  
If dad hadn’t joined the pentecostal congregation, maybe he could’ve allowed himself to give more than the annual cat cards. Or not. Ronea really can’t tell, but being surrounded with people telling you your only son will end up in hell if he doesn’t change, isn’t fucking helping.  
  
A husband and a lover do, though. A husband who’s still sniffling, still grasping for your hand to bring you back. A lover, deceitfully meek, who can take the weight of the world and still stand. And Ronea is no longer seventeen or twenty, no longer moments from dying and if he was, there’d be a father back in Ohio mourning.  
  
But he’s alive. He’s fortyfive years old and so very alive and when he closes his eyes from the weariness, the darkness isn’t swallowing him, only softly rocking, like the arms of a mother, or a father, or a husband or a lover, who each in their own way make can make an aging, battered and miserable heart feel safe and whole again. 


	61. Juice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord help us, Daddy is in the kitchen...

It had been a quiet evening after the talk and what came to Juice’s mind, was the realisation that the stillness wasn’t uncomfortable. First, Papi had been, not clingy really, but close to it, constantly either touching Daddy or Juice, or just following them with his eyes. In a way, it reminded a little of himself and it was a strange thing to witness that behavior from someone else. Someone who was his top.  
  
Daddy had cried too, they’d comforted him together, Papi and Juice. Some weeks, even days earlier, this would’ve caused a panic attack, Juice thought. He felt surprised it hadn’t, kind of, or something like it. The absence of a huge, scary and draining reaction was… new. Good, yes, but also worrying. It was quite difficult to describe the feeling to himself silently, but Juice was pretty sure he’d not felt this one before. For once, the lack of knowledge and defined terms wasn’t causing him too much difficulties. He was too focused on Papi.  
  
The man was sitting sideways in one of the garden chairs on the backyard now, with his long legs hanging over the armrest. Daddy had helped him shower and Papi was wearing one of his kneelong skirts with long vents on each side and a thin, grey tanktop. His hair was still wet, hanging loosely around his face, sunglasses covering his eyes and he was smoking a joint and had Mr. Bunny in his lap. Tonight, he would’t care about who cooked dinner and Juice turned away from the window to the kitchen countertop where Daddy was trying to make… something.  
  
“Bloody shite… How the hell does this thing work?”  
  
He was fighting a seemingly unsuccessful battle with Papi’s food processor and Juice hid his smile.  
  
“What are you doing, Daddy?”  
“I’m… trying to… make this shite machine do wha’ it’s supposed to.”  
“Yeah, but what are you cooking?”  
“Shepherd’s pie.”  
  
Seriously? Juice almost rolled his eyes and left the window.  
  
“Have you ever made that before?”  
“No.”  
“Then why are you trying it now?”  
  
Daddy looked up with an exasperated face.  
  
“Because it’s what’s on Papi’s menu, lad.”  
“Then why the blender?”  
“To make mash, of course.”  
“Uhm… You don’t need a blender for that, Daddy.”  
“How would _ye_ know?”  
  
Now Juice couldn’t help but rolling his eyes, because Daddy was just silly.  
  
“Daddy, I’ve been living on my own for more than eighteen years and I actually know how to cook more than instant noodles and scrambled eggs.”  
“Well, good for ye, lad.”  
“Do you want my help?”  
“I… “  
  
Daddy threw a gaze at the window and his resting husband and then back at the cook book and food processor, as if they were a personal offense. Then he sighed and looked at Juice.  
  
“I’m lost here, lad, so aye, I’d like some help. Jus’ don’ ruin any o’ Papi’s tools.”  
“I could tell you the same, Daddy. If you keep trying to push that part down that hard, the plastic’s gonna break.”  
  
It wasn’t meant to be rude, just pointing out the obvious and Daddy just raised his hands in defeat and shaking his head.  
  
“Well then, guide me, lil’ one.”  
“You can peel the potatos, Daddy, and I’ll start with the mince. Okay?”  
“Alrigh’.”  
“Papi’s not gonna be mad, right? For us cooking?”  
  
Daddy shook his head.  
  
“Not during these circumstances an’ he’d be a lot more ticked off if we ordered takeaway so…”  
“It’s the lesser of two evil?”  
  
Now Daddy smiled a little.  
  
“Aye, one could put it like tha’.”  
“And there’s no rule about me not being allowed to cook, right?”  
“Ye’re a clever lad… T’is still a stretch, but no, there’s no rule banning ye from cooking since we never thought that would be necessary.”  
  
Juice realised something and grinned widely.  
  
“Does that mean _I’m_ in charge now, Daddy?”  
“Momentarily an’ only in the kitchen until dinner is served, lil’ one.”  
  
Daddy sounded stern but he was smiling and Juice felt the familiar, old sense of safety and desire to obey buzzing down his spine. Daddy was still strong, still in charge and Juice went close to him, snuggling his chest.  
  
“Daddy?”  
“Aye, laddie?”  
“Need you to change my diaper first.”


	62. Filip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baby steps for baby boy and Daddy tries to not get overly emotional over it <3

The lad should’ve gotten changed hours ago and Filip scolded him gently for not telling.  
  
“Lad, ye’re getting a rash…”  
“Sorry, Daddy, I didn’t think about it.”  
  
Potty training had been put to hold in the last days and Filip knew they had to bring that back soon. Juice’s nappy was filled and he’d been too focused on the talking to notice. Ronea, of course, couldn’t be blamed either. This was entirely on Filip and he washed the reddening skin with baby oil and warm water before applying aloe and then giving the lad a kiss on his nose to reassure he’d not actually been naughty.  
  
Juice had been wearing the softer chastity belt on daily basis now for a long time, as it kept him from falling into a sexual reaction his mind couldn’t handle too well at the moment, but his penis seemed a little swollen when Filip removed it to wash him.  
  
“Are ye tender, Juice?”  
“A little, Daddy.”  
“Maybe we could use the numbing cream instead for now…”  
  
He was speaking to himself really and Juice didn’t answer, just laid on the changing mat with widened legs, patiently and trustfully waiting for Filip to finish. He needed a shaving too, the stubble on his groin was probably getting irritating by now but that would have to wait. Filip finished the washing, dried him with a towel and gave a shot of aloe into his butt. The crack was a lot better nowadays, almost no red and Filip widened the hole with his fingers to check.  
  
“Looks good, Juice. Any soreness?”  
“No, Daddy.”  
“How about during using the nappy?”  
“It’s still a little tense, I think.”  
“Is it alrigh’ if I widen ye a wee bit more to check, lovey?”  
“Of course, Daddy.”  
  
The aloe gel was as good as lube for this and Filip very gently scissored his fingers a bit more. It was, as Juice had said, a bit tense, but not as much as it had been. He looked at Juice’s face.  
  
“Does it hurt?”  
“No, it’s just… a little unusual right now. Feels like… not hurt but like it’s kinda… stiff? Does that make sense, I don’t know another word for it?”  
“Ye mean like stiff as in being stiff in yer joints from not moving?”  
“Yeah, something like that. Doesn’t hurt, but it’s… unused?”  
  
Filip smiled at him and removed his hand.  
  
“Ye’ve not had sex for months, laddie, an’ with the tummy troubles an’ the meds an’ all, there’s no wonder ye’re clenching more than before. Nothing to worry about, but I’m glad ye told me. An’ I’m happy to tell ye tha’ there’s no redness inside, jus’ a wee bit around the puckered area.”  
“Oh, that’s good, right? I mean, it’s improving?”  
“Very much so, lovey.”  
  
The lad sighed and closed his eyes and for a moment, Filip thought there was something wrong, but then Juice cracked a smile.  
  
“Is it weird that you can get happy for this, Daddy?”  
“Not at all, Juicyboy. Let me get ye some numbing cream though. Jus’ to keep it on the right path.”  
“Thank you, Daddy. Daddy?”  
“Aye, lovey?”  
“I miss being spanked.”  
  
Filip tried to focus on getting the clean nappy on, swallowing because there was a lot to that sentence. And, Mary Mother o' Christ, he was actually starting to connect with his body again. Filip looked up at the sunny smile, trying not to start weeping himself.   
  
“I miss spanking ye too, laddie. And I promise ye tha’ when ye’re back to being my _adult_ baby boy, I will take ye over my lap again an’ give ye wha’ ye need. _When_ ye're ready to need it like before.”


	63. Ronea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ronea 1st person pov, where he's sinking into some painful but at the same time precious memories of his mom, while listening to his husband and baby boy possibly ruining his kitchen.

When I was kid, mom had a weird nickname for me. Catamount. _Pull those claws back, my little catamount_ or, _use your claws wisely, catamount._ The first was a warning or a reminder, the second an advice. Sometimes, usually after a fight once we’d calmed down and were about to become friends again, she would roll her eyes and sigh:  
  
_How did my kitten manage to grow up to a catamount behind my back, can you tell me that, kiddo?_  
  
While it had been a very bad idea to mouth back that time, I just couldn’t help myself one of those fights and had snapped:  
  
_Guess I take after the cougar._  
  
Had dad been home, he’d taken off his belt in a sec, because he still spanked his fifteen-year-old on occasion and backtalking mom was on the list of transgressions where the belt was a given. Thankfully, he’d been working and mom never told him. Instead, she laughed.  
  
I still remember it so vividly. She smiled and laughed a lot, but that moment in the kitchen after school, is like an old, classical movie running exactly the same sequence every time in my head. I can see myself on the kitchen floor, a gangly and far too skinny teen who’ve grown too fast for the fat and muscles to catch up, with too long hair dad will both spank and ground me for if I don’t get a haircut within two weeks.  
  
A very typical teen with bad posture and pimples, lousy confidence and even worse temper. It’s early November 1984 and while I’m hiding my sexual orientation in the closet, I’m also hiding my records with Bathory, Mercyful Fate and Metallica in plastic bags behind the washing machine so that dad can’t find them. Mom pretends she doesn’t see them, covering for me because she’s a great mom, a fucking awesome person and I’m a brat who doesn’t have the decency to be grateful. I take her for granted, because she’s the only mom I got and I have no clue how lucky I am. In other words: I’m still very much a child and rarely using my claws wisely.  
  
Yes, I’m a fifteen year old brat and instead of whooping my ass with the wooden spoon or ordering me to my room, mom is laughing hysterically over her chopped carrots for the dinner stew. The moody teen I am, I’m rolling my eyes at first – which would’ve gotten me grounded in addition to the ass whooping, had dad been present – and then, out of nowhere, she’s throwing a piece of carrot at me.  
  
She hits me in the chest, it doesn’t hurt at all, it’s just fucking stupid and comical and weird because mom is playful, always has been, but there’s this strange little glance in her eyes, almost as if she’s seeing through me, not inside me but _right through_ , as if I was transparent and she stops in her movement, freezing on spot. I’m confused as hell, worried because I’ve never seen her like this and I feel shitty too. She’s not moving and I walk up to her, touching her shoulder a bit.  
  
Mom? Mom, what’s happening?  
  
She’s not answering and the next second, she’s sinking to the floor and I’m panicking. I have no memory of calling 911, I just know I did because that’s what I’ve been told. There must’ve been an ambulance, I do recall a stranger holding my hand, telling me how well I’ve done for calling so quickly and staying calm for mom. At the hospital, they take her away and I panic again, someone’s calling dad and when he finally arrives, I first think he looks angry, but I still throw myself in his arms and I can feel his heart beat so fast as he’s holding me, not yelling or telling me off, but just holding me there.  
  
In that moment, I’m a child and he’s my dad who’s strong enough to fight the whole world for me.  
  
Neither of us know it yet, but that afternoon, the still undetected cancer has already passed the point of being curable. Mom will live for another fourteen months and never throw another carrot at me again. And dad might be fighting, but he’s no superhero and I’m too old to hold on to that picture. The only superhero, is mom.  
  
Almost all the way to the end, she’s still there for me, even when she’s in pain and throwing up from the chemotherapy. Some days she’s better, almost like before, and those days she insist on cooking and baking, teaching me her best recipes and we both pretend this isn’t a preparation for the end. Other days, she’s just laying in bed, ridden with pain and nausea and the worst of them, she’s at the hospital, barely reckognizing anyone.  
  
Her lasts months, as painful as they were for all of us, also belong to the best times I spent with her. I’m helping her with her hair, what’s left of it and dad allows it, allows the girly stuff he doesn’t want his son to do, out of respect for mom. And mom tells me that I shouldn’t think so much about what other people think, that I should live my life on my own terms and that’s when I tell her I like boys.  
  
I’m still scared to death for dad to find out, but as with my metal records, mom neither tells dad neither judges me and I realise she already knew. She asks me to tell dad but I’m not ready for that and I may be a brat, but I’m also scared that telling dad will somehow turn into a fight that will make mom worse. So, she shares her secret recipes and lets me keep my secret feelings and doesn’t intrude, only keeps telling me that she loves me no matter what, that I’m not sick or disgusting or unnatural. That times have changed since she was fifteen-going-on-sixteen and maybe, she says while stroking my now far too long hair with a smile, _times are a changin’ for the better again soon, my catamount…_  
  
Around that time, when mom has accepted there’s nothing to be done and dad hasn’t, never will, and I’m just trying to shut everything off, I’m unknowingly learning to use my claws more efficiently. I come out to dad and he’s reacting like I’m confused, for once listening to mom when she tells him not to judge, not to make things hard for us now, because even while sick and weak, she still has claws.  
  
She has no use for them though, nor have I for mine that Thursday at four thirtysix pm, January 17th 1985 when she’s taking her last breath after laying unconscious for two days at the hospital. And I have one more recipe collection and one parent less. Dad no longer has a wife and doesn’t know how to cook or grief. Neither has he found my records and with mom’s death, we’re driving apart, so naturally it doesn’t even seem to hurt that much. I’m sixteen-going-on-seventeen, dad is fortyone and knows as little about dealing with grief as he does about cooking. We’re ghosts wandering around the house, grieving, and maybe that’s why we don’t discuss me being gay for a long time.  
  
I’m 45 now, older than mom got, older than dad was when he lost her and as I’m resting in the chair trying not to laugh at my husband trying to find out how the blender works, I’m still not sure how much dad suspected about what Aaron did to me. I was rarely at home by then, the last year before I turned eighteen and moved out. I remember that we started to speak less and less, but we seemed to fight less too. I was happy for him when he started to see friends, at least until I realised they were from the pentecostal church and I guess I had this small, irrational hope that since I accepted _him_ and the way _he_ lived, he would accept me the same. If not for me, then for mom. Sadly, fatherhood didn’t outmatch the prospect of eternal life.  
  
Poor dad isn’t a cat person, never was, and I’m still a catamount, although comically domesticated, and I’ve realised there’s nothing a mother or father can do, that will prepare you for every moment you may have to use your claws. Mostly, I use mine not to defend myself, but to climb back up from falling. Mom would be proud and dad knows that. He knows she loved me no matter what, knows she accepted me wholeheartedly and I guess that’s one of the reasons why he can allow himself to send the cards.  
  
My stubborn old father who, like so many men in his generation, never learned how to express feelings in a good way, still sends those cards with cats twice a year because he loves his catamount son too, always has, just as he still loves his dead wife too much to ever seek a new one.  
  
But yes, I’m 45 now and back in Canton Ohio, dad is 75 and still visiting his dead wife’s grave every anniversery he’s holding on to. Their engagement, their wedding day, the day they found out mom was finally pregnant and dad didn’t know if he was more happy or more scared. He visits her on her birthday and his, and on mine and sometimes I think he’s trying to see me as dead too, not because he wishes it, but because it makes the detachment seem natural, maybe even a little easier to carry.  
  
It’s painful, it really is, but although he was the one rejecting me, I’m certain he’s the one of us who’s truly abandoned. Because I embraced the freedom mom taught me, I allowed myself to have a taste of it, to get vulnerable and dive in. He just locked himself up.  
  
And so, despite the hellish parts of my past that keep hurting me, the pain I’ve learned to live with instead of fighting a loosing battle against it, I rise again, sometimes with the help of my sharp claws – and sometimes by being lifted up as a tiny, hissing kitten in loving arms. And everytime I’m back on my feet, mom is giving that victorious grin before my eyes, saying:  
  
I knew you’d make it, son. Never doubted you for a second, catamount.  
  
Well, catamounts don’t cook, so I guess, for this time, I’ll leave my little family alone in the kitchen, waiting for the hesistant footsteps and clearing of throats to raise the white flag and admit culinary defeat. Because, as you used to say, mom: some men shouldn’t be allowed closer than ten feet to a stove and I know that if you saw me and my little family now, you’d roll your eyes at me, shaking your head and nod at the liqour cabinet:  
  
_Pour us both a drink, will you, Ronea? It’s time to put our feet up before we deal with this disaster, don’t you think?_  
  
Yes, mom, it is. Make it a double, will you? We don’t need our claws anymore tonight. Your catamount kitten is safe now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realise I'm too slow with telling some parts, because I often find it hard to make the "progress in the moment" scenes, which can make it a little too dragged out.
> 
> I'd LOVE for you sweet readers to give more feedback if you have the time and energy for it. It's not a complaint or demand or anything, just me saying feedback is SO welcome <3<3<3


	64. Juice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And a little bit more progress, hopefully...

Papi smiled as Juice pulled the chair out for him.  
  
“I find myself surrounded with gentlemen. Where did they come from and where did they hide my biker boys?”  
  
The teasing was calming and Papi looked so pretty in his kneelong skirt and the thin shawl he’d draped over his shoulders. His smile was still sad but the rest seemed to have helped some and he appeared present, not lost in the awful memories he’d shared. Juice still sat down on his lap and put his arms around his neck. He wasn’t sure if he tried to comfort Papi or himself – or if he just wanted to hold him and being held.   
  
“S’okay that we cooked, Papi…?”  
  
Papi hadn’t shown any displeasure yet, but Juice still wanted to be sure and he felt a stubbled smile against his neck.  
  
“It’s perfectly fine, baby boy and it smells very nice.”  
“T’is shepherd’s pie, Papi.”  
“So my nose is telling me, sweetheart. Could you be a darling and bring Papi some sparkled water?”  
“Right away, Papi.”  
  
He’d never really valeted on anyone but his lover, only helped out and there was a difference, Juice realised as he poured Papi’s glass. There were rules to pretty much every part of his lovers’ life and that, honestly, was what had been so intriguing to begin with when he first met them. The routines, the rules, the solidity of a life where almost everything had it’s time, place and purpose.   
  
Only Daddy could serve Papi drinks, only Papi could serve food and the exceptions were few and rare but clearly there. Papi seemed more amused than anything that his territory had been occupied and messed with. Juice threw a glance at the stove, the countertop and the sink, silently admitting that while the shephard’s pie might turn out edible, the kitchen looked like a couple of toddlers had been let loose.   
  
There were potato peels and eggshells all over the sink, small splashes of mash on the floor and tiles above the countertop. The stove had stains from mince, Worcestershire sauce and tomato puree and a good amount of cheese and herbs had landed outside the casserole dish. The picture of mess was completed with the amount of spoons, knives and various bowls Daddy had insisted on using to measure and separate ingredients with. Honestly, Juice was impressed that Papi didn’t freak out. Daddy brought the pie to the table and gave Papi a kiss on his hair.  
  
“I’ll make it up to ye later, lovey.”  
  
Papi just smiled at that, almost looking a little dreamy, but he was of course tired now and Juice didn’t give any more thought to it as he sat down on his place and Daddy dished up the dinner. The change in the routine was logical, easy to follow and accept, but Juice still found it difficult to relax and Daddy noticed it.  
  
“Ye wan’ Daddy to help ye, kiddo?”  
  
Was it selfish to want that when Papi wasn’t feeling well? Juice bit his lip, not sure how to respond when Daddy simply took his fork and brought a mouthful of pie to his lips. It was good. Not as good as Papi’s of course, but absolutely edible and Juice enjoyed a couple of bites before he suddenly realised something and stiffened.  
  
“Juicy? Wha’s the matter, lad?”  
“You okay, baby boy?”  
  
He couldn’t say it. That would be interfering and he had no place in _that_ part of his lover’s marriage. He curled up on the chair, hiding his face onto his knees and then he heard Papi’s weary, soothing voice.  
  
“Juice, listen to Papi. We’ve been through hell, you and I, and there’s nothing you could say now that would shock me or Daddy one bit, okay? Unless you’re suddenly turning straight, I guess. That would probably give both of us a minor seizure.”  
  
That made him laugh, despite the anxiety, because it was good to hear Papi’s dry sense of humor but he still felt like he was on thin ice and he just couldn’t lie and sure as hell wouldn’t be ignored because if there was one thing Juice had learned about this house, it was that you didn’t leave problems unsolved.  
  
He took a deep breath then, trying to be brave although he couldn’t look up.  
  
“D-daddy cooked…”  
“Yes, he did. You and Daddy cooked because I was too exhausted, sweetheart. Why is that worrying you?”  
“Because… D-daddy’s gonna…”  
  
It was hard to say it, even with Papi’s gentle rubs on his back. Daddy shifted on his chair.  
  
“Juicyboy, ye can an’ should speak yer mind, remember? If something’s worrying ye, we wannae know about it, lovey, an’ we never ever punish feelings in this house. Ye’re perfectly respectful, lad, so jus’ tell us wha’s on yer mind, aye?”  
  
Now he had to and he held onto his knees as hard as he could.  
  
“Y-you’re gonna spank Papi…”  
  
There. He’d said it and he had no right to know about Papi’s corrections so this meant he was a naughty, nosy boy who tried to…  
  
“Oh, Juicy…”  
  
Papi now nuzzled his neck.   
  
“Filip, love, may I speak freely about this?”  
“Aye, lovey, I think ye’ll explain it better than I will. If ye feel comfortable with it, of course.”  
“I do. Are you?”  
“Aye.”  
“Thank you, Filip.”  
  
There was a kiss on his nape and then Papi sighed.  
  
“Juice, sweetheart, you’re right. Daddy will spank me later, when you’re asleep for the night, but he’s not _punishing_ me and neither is it like that time with the laundry when I felt out of myself for Daddy overstepping boundaries. I’m not upset that you made dinner, not at all, and I’ve not broken any rules, neither have you or Daddy. This has nothing to do with rule breaking, baby boy, okay?”  
“Sure?”  
“Absolutely, my little love. Daddy will spank me, because I need it. You know that feeling, baby boy… When you just _need_ that and _only_ that to resettle again, or you’ll go absolute berserk.”  
  
Juice nodded because that was something he could place and define a lot easier than most other feelings.  
  
“I… I know, Papi. Not… not m-mad then?”  
“Not one bit, angel. Not me and not Daddy. Aint that right, baby?”  
“Aye, darlin’. This is a _good_ thing, Juicyboy an’ ye’re not naughty for asking about it if ye’re worried, alrigh’? I’m proud o’ ye for speaking up.”  
  
Juice looked up, surprised and still worried, but both his lovers were smiling and their eyes calm and warm. Papi stroked his hair, smile deepening.  
  
“How about you let Daddy feed you and then, before bed, I’ll give you a bottle by the telly? Is there any particular movie you’d like to watch tonight?”  
“Th-the Secret World of Arrietty?”  
“Excellent choice. Now, lets eat.”


	65. Filip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before Filip can tend to his husband's needs, there's a wee lad who needs his Daddy. 
> 
> Btw, I'm SO happy and grateful for the feedback! Thanks a lot! <3

The most meek part of his husband was for Filip and Filip alone. In a way, it was a lot more private than sex and the occasional lovers before Juice had never been able to understand when to back off, some even getting offended for what they felt like being shut out, and that was one of the reasons why they’d not had a steady lover for quite some time before Juice entered their lives.  
  
Juice, no matter his many and severe issues, never seemed to feel the need to peek into that privacy and Filip loved and admired him hugely for that. The lad didn’t require any explanations for when or why his lovers had to keep certain things just between the two of them, he accepted their marriage completely and answering his questions without mincing the words was, kind of, a reward for that respect. A sign of trust, really, come thinking about it and maybe they’d all been so focused on Juice’s problems and gotten so used to _them_ being on display, they’d forgotten that the balance had shifted a bit too much in one direction.  
  
For crying out loud, Filip and Ronea not only knew about horrible things in Juice’s past that he’d never told anyone before, they’d babied him for many many weeks now, changed his nappies, fed him bottles and pretty much treated him like a child as far as he needed it and at least Filip was so used to it by now, he no longer thought about how extremely intimate and potentially devestating for the self-image that could be when it wasn’t handled with outmost care. It was no more than right that Juice knew if Ronea was going to be spanked, if he was worried about it in some way.  
  
Being told what was going to happen to his Papi, had a calming effect on Juice, who now snuggled between them on the couch with Mr. Bunny in his arms and the pacifier in place. The lad clearly longed for a spanking and considering how calming they were to him in so many ways, Filip really felt frustrated that he couldn’t give him one yet. Maybe, he mused as he pretended to focus on the movie, knowing that Ronea would get a resettling spanking,felt fsafe to Juice as well? Then he didn’t have to worry about being part of some rulebreaking while also being reminded of the usual routine.  
  
They all had different needs right now and what was pretty fucking amazing, was that the same thing could fill those different needs. Juice needed to know the fundamental things weren’t changing in their relationship, Ronea needed emotional relief and renewed sense of stability and Filip, well he needed to be in control of himself and his family. A spanking was one of the most efficient tools for that.  
  
When the movie was over, Juice was still very much awake and Ronea went to make the bottle. Filip kissed his boy’s hair.  
  
“T’is still early, lil’ one. We can put another movie on if ye wannae.”  
“Daddy decides.”  
  
Ah. So it was one of those nights. Filip wasn’t the least surprised and he would gladly indulge his sweet lad.  
  
“Then Daddy decides he’ll go an’ get yer PJ’s an’ then we watch another movie until ye’re feeling sleepy enough for bed.”  
“Juice likes that, Daddy.”  
“I thought ye might. I’ll be righ’ back, lovey.”  
  
The slipping back into baby mode was expected and Ronea clearly counted on it too, since he didn’t look worried or even surprised to find Juice on the changing mat by the telly when he came back with the bottle and also the sling.  
  
The nappy change and PJ procedure went quick and easy and Juice’s tiny rash was already improving. As soon as they were done, the lad snuggled up in Ronea’s arms and let him attach the adult baby sling. Seeing it, made Filip think that there were a lot of different ways to resettle chosen roles and boundaries. Their sweet lad had mostly been in a much more grown up phase for a while now, but now he seemed to need the babying and even let himself slide into it without any visible worry.  
  
Filip didn’t say anything, or tried to sit closer because this was a Papi/baby boy moment and it was beautiful just to watch. Juice slowly settled more and more into the sling and his Papi’s arms, feeling safe and loved while being nurtured. Ronea was absolutely amazing with this, being so natural with this need and treating the whole procedure with nothing but love and respect.  
  
Elizabeth Tully would’ve been proud – well, if she’d not been too shocked by the nature of their relationship which Filip honestly couldn’t tell. But the _amount_ of love and care her son was able to give and so freely did, was something his mother would be damn fucking proud of. Her son was meek and if not just as strong as she, in some ways even stronger. And later this night, Filip would reward that strenght with something he was very grateful that his late mother-in-law would never know about.


	66. Ronea/Filip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A painful but dear moment between two loving husbands, 1st and 3rd pov... And a microgram of progress^^

**Ronea:**  
Some say my husband is strict and I often have a hard time not to laugh when hearing other people pointing that out, because what they consider him being strict, is nothing and I doubt that anyone but Juice understands what it feels like being his sole focus when he’s _strict_.  
  
My baby boy is asleep, putting him to bed went easier than I expected and it’s only now that I truly start to feel how much these talkings have worned me out. Throughout the years, I’ve become better and better to see these patterns, but it’s not the same thing going through this with Juice _and_ Filip, instead of just with Filip. I’m already feeling the anticipation, the two feelings fighting inside my stomach. One that is dying for this and the other one that wants nothing more than getting out of it. Not only am I in dire need of a spanking, I’m clearly needing to be reminded of my obedience vows again.    
  
I’m already in chastity, Filip put it on before we got Juice into bed, and that’s my saving grace because all these pent-up emotions are making me hard as a rock right now and sex is the last thing I should use in these situations. Believe me, we’ve tried it and lets just say it’s been a disaster. I’m not hard from wanting sex, but from anticipation and stress and coming over my husband’s lap while he’s disicplining me, would ruin it. I can’t control myself, so he does, and I love him to no end for it, shivering as he’s slowly petting my hair.  
  
“Don’ squirm, lovey. I know t’is difficult righ’ now, but try to let go, one step at a time with my help, aye?”  
“Yes, Filip. I’ll do my best.”  
“Tha’s my good husband.”  
  
Good boy, good lad… My husband often uses these terms when he’s correcting me, but good _husband_ has a slightly other tone, another weight to it that makes me tremble in the best of ways, even with all the shit I’m not even close to release yet. I’m kneeling before him but not in the repentment position with head bent and a little distance between us. Instead I’m resting my face onto his belly, arms on the sides of this thighs and he’s cradling my head. I’m not confessing transgressions or asking for forgiveness, I’m only _submitting_ and there are few emotions as intense as that one.  
  
“I’m proud o’ ye, husband… Ye’re making me a very happy man.”  
  
_Lord help me, if I wasn’t in chastity…_ I keep my head low and do my best to listen without sliding away in thought.  
  
“When my friends tell me how lucky I am to have a husband who’s so polite, so skilled an’ supportive, I don’ even have the common decency to pretend I don’ agree. In fact, sometimes I’m probably showing my pride a lil’ too much. An’ then I think o’ all the couple I know o’ tha’ seem to do nothing but fight an’ compete an’ ye know wha’ I think then, husband?”  
“No, sir.”  
  
He’s stroking my neck now and I’m shivering.  
  
“I think o’ how hard ye’re working to honour yer vows, how sincere ye are an’ how ye’re making me feel not jus’ proud an’ happy, but strong. While I don’ like it when ye disrespect or disobey me, something ye rarely do, I admit tha’ I do love to discipline ye, seeing ye fall apart over my lap.”  
  
He’s set on killing me with need. _Bastard._ I immediately regret my disrespectful thoughts and I look up.  
  
“Please, husband, may I speek?”  
“Of course, dearest.”  
“I just called you bastard in my thoughts for saying things that turn me on right now.”  
“Tha’s very disrespectful, husband, but I am aware o’ wha’ language _I’m_ using righ’ now, so I’ll be content with the fact tha’ ye were dutiful an’ honest to tell me righ’ away an’ not take it into account when I discipline ye.”  
“Thank you, Filip.”  
  
I’m almost sobbing already, this is gonna leave me completely drained and we’re still only talking. He strokes my head again.  
  
“Ye’re welcome, Ronea. Ye wan’ me to remind ye o’ yer duties?”  
“Please.”  
  
I turn my head down again, pressing it onto his belly.  
  
“Ye’re my submissive husband, my homemaker an’ ye answer to me. Ye’re responsible for our home an’ all things domestic. I expect ye to be respectful towards me at all times, to obey me when I give ye an order an’ to set an example for our boy, our friends an’ accquaintances on how a dutiful, submissive spouse should behave an’ live up to the vows he made.”  
“I want to show you respect, Filip… I… I _want_ to obey you… I’m… I’m _not_ your equal.”  
“No, ye’re not my equal, Ronea, but ye _are_ my companion. I’m the head o’ our household, but ye’re the heart o’ our home an’ were ye not, there’d be nothing for me to be the head o’, my love. _Ye’re_ my greatest pride an’ joy an’ if ye’re not whole, I’m not either. If ye’re not happy an’ safe, then neither am I.”  
  
I’m crying. Yes, it’s too early, but there’s no way not to when he’s talking to me like this. I’m not being scolded at, he’s not disappointed and he’s not pointing out my flaws or my weakness. On the contrary, he’s all but drowning me in praise and it’s getting too much for me now. He keeps massaging my scalp, calm as if nothing could throw him off balance.  
  
“Ye may cry, Ronea. I can see tha’ ye need it an’ then tha’s wha’ ye should do. Ever since we got together, t’is been the greatest pleasure to me, giving ye wha’ ye need, if it’s in my power to give an’ in yers to receive. I’ve not given ye a proper spanking for some time now an’ we’re gonnae remedy tha’ now. I cannae allow for any o’ us to forget our duties, sweet husband, an’ if I have of lately, I will correct myself to the best o’ my abilities.”  
  
_Yes, please! Please fucking correct yourself by correcting me,_ I want to shout, but I’m a sub, not an idiot and then my husband shows me a reel of rattan thread he’s kept hidden beneath a couch pillow. My stomach makes a twist that’s a lot more one of excitement than worry, because we’ve not done this particular routine for a very long time and as usual, it’s not the prospect of the actual spanking that’s making my cock strain even worse in the chastity, but the dominance.  
  
He holds out the reel, still very serious.  
  
“We’re gonnae braid this rattan together, husband, because we both need a reminder o’ our vows an’ duties now. Ye agree?”  
“I do, sir.”  
  
It’s not gonna be funny, the rattan thread is course as hell but I will submit, I need to or I’ll combust and my ass is already clenching because oh, dear, this will _hurt_ and the humiliation of kneeling before my husband, braiding the tool for my correction as he’s holding the end of the threads, shuts off everything else completely – which is the purpose. And as I start the task, he’s still talking but now I’m only required to listen.  
  
“I’m choosing this instrument to show my devotion to our duties, Ronea. No matter wha’s going on in our lives, our marriage an’ the way we chose to form it, will always be most important task in life. An’ when I can see tha’ I’ve not put our marriage first, which I should, I will renew my efforts as yer husband an’ top. I feel bad for not paying attention as closely as usual, because no matter the reason, t’is making ye feel lonely an’ for tha’ I’m sorry.”  
“May I answer that, husband?”  
“Ye may, my love.”  
“I’m not saying you’re wrong, only that I know the reason why it’s been difficult for you to focus and that I’m in no way angry with you or disappointed for it.”  
“Thank ye, dearest.”  
  
I’m almost done braiding now, my body is tense from both stress and anticipation, practically radiating and I don’t like crying before a spanking, but I can’t help it and that makes me frustrated. I wipe my face angrily and Filip grab my hands.  
  
“Look at me, Ronea.”  
  
I do, eyes teary and it takes all I got not to lower my gaze. He’s so calm, so serious and I love how the tiny wrinkles around his eyes and greyness of his hair somehow make him seem much more strict and solid than in our youth. Age isn’t withering him, it’s making him stronger, tougher, more stable, like an old tree who’s ridden out every storm thanks to the roots fixation in the ground. He’s my safety in every storm and still, I find it hard to look him in the eyes in moments like this.  
  
He’s not smiling, but he cradles my face softly, planting a small kiss on my forehead.  
  
“Don’ ever be afraid o’ me, husband. I’ve got ye, always.”  
  
I can’t answer to that, I’m not required to either because he knows how pent-up I am right now and so I keep braiding the last part, creating a rather thick but short kind of whip and when I’m done, I’m already partly soaked in sweat and my husband puts the whip away and leans down to me, stroking my back.  
  
“Ye wan’ me to undress ye, lovey? S’not good for ye to stay in those clothes righ’ now.”  
  
I nod, but look up.  
  
“Please, but can we… Could you please make a fire first? I feel a little cold.”  
“Of course, lovey.”  
  
It’s gonna be a rough session, we both know that and it’s important that I don’t start freezing since it easily can turn into chills and fever when I’m as tense as now. I’m starting to realise that I’m far worse off than I could feel before. It’s been too long and the changes and the stress they’ve caused have been festering inside my heart and mind. We’ve both been too focused on Juice to catch up and there’s no wonder I’ve been having my flashbacks again.  
  
I can’t recall the last time I was this… out of myself, my brain must’ve shut off those emotions since the flashback I got after we went to the day clinic and suddenly I feel completely helpless, not just emotionally, but physically as well. I can’t really move, I’m not frozen in panic or anything, I’m simply incapable of _doing_ anything and I’m sunken into a kneeling ball on the floor, sobbing when Filip starts taking my clothes off.  
  
“T’is alright, Ronea. I’ve got ye, _mo chridhe*,_ don’ fight wha’ ye’re feeling, lovey. I can see ye’re completely exhausted, so jus’ let me take it from here, aye?”  
  
Normally, it’s vital for our sessions that I’m an active participant, but there are occasions, as this one, when I simply can’t follow through like we both prefer. I’m just too exhausted now, so my husband carefully, so patiently undresses me, folding my clothes neatly on the floor and then he starts rubbing my sticky skin with a towel before draping a blanket around me.  
  
“Take some sips, lovey.”  
  
I don’t recall seeing the water bottle before, but as usual, my husband has thought of everything and I eagerly accept the drink, finishing almost a third of the bottle before he takes it away and cradles me.  
  
“Good lad, Ronea. Tha’s my good husband… Jus’ rest against me for a while an’ let me talk.”  
  
I just nod, or so I think, and leans into his shoulder as he’s holding my shivering body, rubbing outside the blanket to get me warm.  
  
“I’m gonnae spank ye completely naked tonight, because there’s no point in ye getting new clothes on now. I know this may make ye feel more vulnerable, so I wan’ to remind ye tha’ I’m aware o’ tha’ an’ tha’ t’is only for practical reasons, not as an added detail to the session. There’s no correctional thought to it, alrigh’? Nod if ye understand.”  
  
I nod, actually grateful that I don’t have to talk and I get a small kiss for it.  
  
“Good. Now, I’m not punishing ye, an’ I’ve chosen the rattan thread because I believe ye can’ take it, but more than that because I think ye need it tonight. This means, as ye’re probably very much aware o’, tha’ t’is gonnae feel very close to a punishment physically.”  
  
I nod again, showing that I understand. The rare times when I’m actually punished for some major transgression, aren’t fun in the least and means I can’t sit for days or sleep on my back. Of course, my husband never gives me lasting or in any way dangerous injuries, but a bruised backside is _not_ comfortable albeit a very effective tool for me if I’ve been falling out of line too much. It hurts for days and I’m still required to sit properly at mealtimes which, let me tell you, is neither fun nor easy.  
  
I get another kiss, soothing the tension I’ve unconsciously started to rebuild again.  
  
“If ye feel ye’re not able to take it, ye’re gonnae tell me an’ then I will make the decision on how to proceed, based on yer needs. Ye’re not restricted in any way to express yerself once we’re starting, lovey, an’ unless ye have a _medical_ reason for me to cut this session short, I will not be lenient.”  
  
As crazy as it may sound, this is exactly what I need to hear. I’m still trapped between my need for this and the part of me that screams I’m fucking crazy for submitting to this and that I should run. Instead, I nod to show I hear and understand and my husband proceeds by sitting on a pillow on the floor, kneeling back on his heels really and he removes the blanket from me, leaving me completely naked save for the chastity.  
  
“Take my arm and bend down, husband.”  
  
I still, amazingly, have some strenght left in my hands and I grasp his left lower arm, using it as support as I place myself across his lap. He’s still fully clothed and being all naked over his lap adds a lot to the loss of control, makes me more anxious at first because it’s so fucking humiliating.  
  
No matter how many times he’s spanked me, I still feel so embarressed when I lay down like this. I’m literally exposing my naked ass to him and it always makes me feel like I’m doing something I shouldn’t, something shameful and degrading no grown person would commit to freely. I feel small, ashamed, vulnerable and guilty all at the same time and my caged cock is straining terribly against the inside of my husband’s thigh.  
  
“Ye need a pillow, husband?”  
“Please.”  
“I’m gonnae start with my palm first. Ye’re free to express any emotions, as long as ye don’ make it harder for me to dicipline ye. An’ tell me if ye need water or start to feel anything wrong or unusual.”  
“Thank you, husband, I will.”  
  
I’m clutching the pillow from the very beginning, because holy hell, I’m tense. I’m clenching immediately as my husband’s palm comes down and I actually have to muffle myself straight away. It’s not that I’m not allowed to make sounds, but I don’t want to yet.  
  
He wasn’t lying, he’s not holding back and it stings properly, the slaps are coming in a rather fast pace and I want nothing more than to get away, which makes me squirm and whimper already. After a good ten hard ones like that, he stops and rubs my buttocks.  
  
“Ye’re reluctant, Ronea. I can feel ye’re trying to avoid my hand, getting out o’ yer discipline an’ tha’ makes me both worried an’ _disappointed_.”  
  
If there’s anything I hate, any feeling I just can’t seem to stand, it’s disappointment. I _live_ to please my husband, making him happy is like air to me and while I will always speak my mind and have a tendency for sass, nothing will change my need to please him. Making him worried is bad enough, hearing him tell me I’ve disappointed him is straight out unbearable, far more so than the rattan braid will be.  
  
I try my best to keep still now, even butting my ass up a little more to present it to him and by that my need for discipline more clearly. I need this, badly, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy to take. I get a firm but indulgent rub on my heated skin for the effort.  
  
“Tha’s better, husband. Ye know ye need this spanking, yer bottom is nowhere near red enough yet.”  
  
The praise makes my heart shudder, the sharp slap stings and good Lord, I’m so grateful for the chastity because I’m so hard I could go off in a second from the stress alone. He keeps up the pace for a while and then strokes my shoulder.  
  
“How are ye feeling, my dear?”  
“I’m okay, sir.”  
“Good. Lift up yer hips a bit, please.”  
  
I obey and he places a pillow shaped like a T under my hips. I’m blushing now, the embarressment creeping down my spine because it feels utterly humiliating and also uncomfortable against my rock hard cock and filled balls, but this makes it a lot easier for me to stay in position for him.  
  
“Are ye comfortable, lovey? Can ye remain like this without hurting yer knees or back?”  
“Yes, sir. It feels safe and steady.”  
“Very good. Then I will proceed with the braid.”  
“Yes, sir.”  
“Ye understand why we braided this together, husband?”  
“To resettle, sir. To remind us of our roles.”  
“Good lad.”  
  
He rubs his palm over my buttocks again.  
  
“I’m gonnae spank ye with this braid now because ye need to remember who’s in charge in our marriage. Ye’ve been ridden by yer old demons far too often now in a short space o’ time, lovey, an’ t’is about time I remind ye who ye’re to obey, Ronea, an’ t’is _not_ those demons.”  
  
And with that, he starts and I block a shout in the pillow.  
  
It hurts terribly, the rattan thread is course enough it could make me bleed if my husband wasn’t so skilled with this, and I have to clutch the pillow for dear life not to wake Juice up with my screams. Filip keeps a steady rhythm, not using too much strenght because he doesn’t need to. I’m barely able to remain in place, squirming like I’m actually trying to get away but he’s using his left hand to press the small of back down and the only thing I manage, is to alternate by either bucking my hips to hard to make my cock stirr or causing a sway-back that only makes my ass more presenting to the braid.  
  
I cry and I scream. I squirm and whimper, sweat is pouring all over me and want it to end, to never end, to get away and to be locked down and remain on my husband’s lap forever. He’s treating me all the way down to about a third of my thighs and I feel a sudden pressure in my belly I can’t interpret until I realise I’m not screaming anymore and that he’s stopped and put something plastic at my groin.  
  
“I’m sorry, lovey, I should’ve told ye to take a leak before we started. Let go, no shame.”  
  
It’s that urine bottle and surprisingly, I don’t feel shame as I use it, only relief as the pressure goes away. He removes it, wipes my cock swiftly with a damp towel and I realise my hard-on must’ve softened without me feeling it. I’m rearranged back in position and my already burning ass gets more of the braided whip again.  
  
By now, I’m too drained and sore to squirm. I’m just laying on my husband’s lap, taking every bit of my discipline without fighting back. I’m crying though, not loud but unrestrained because the shame really is gone now, and with it the tension and urge to fight and flee. In this sharp, biting and sweet pain, the last part of the weight I’ve been carrying around since the flashback and talk about my past is starting to crumble like dried clay grinded to dust.  
  
I’m floating, high as a kite from the burn, I can’t name a single feeling yet I’m not numb. I’m completely alive and present, yet still in my own safe bubble of pleasure and there’s no unwanted feeling that can reach me now. I’m untouchable, my memories can’t control my life. I could conquer the world…  
  
  
**Filip:**  
It was inevitable Juice would wake up from the screams and come downstairs. Thankfully, he’d not interrupted the session, but waited until the last strike before showing himself in the doorway. Filip looked up, startled from the unusual interference, but quickly realising Ronea had been a lot louder than usual.  
  
As his husband, blind and deaf to the world, cried his eyes out in the aftermath of his spanking, Filip nodded and smiled at Juice, showing him it was all good and that Daddy had control. He wasn’t angry with his lad for coming downstairs and Juice actually looked calm again, even smiling for a second before walking back upstairs with the stuffed bunny in his hand and Filip could return his entire focus on Ronea again.  
  
Aftercare was always vital, but this time even more so. Ronea was still in that special subspace where he was more or less completely out of control and just feeling, raw and primal in every way and Filip was his mind and reason now. He let him cry in the position for a while longer, just stroking Ronea’s hair and shoulders, until he could feel a shift in intensity. Then he gave him water to drink before very gently starting to move the sore, limp body to the mattress he’d prepared.  
  
It was a strange thing really, to cause the man he loved this much pain and knowing, even seeing, how it turned into a pleasure he himself could barely grasp, let alone understand on a deeper level. He could only witness and accept it, marvel at the beauty and feel the pride, this helpless joy for being the one to give _this much_ pleasure and relief to the man holding his heart. They’d resettled their roles again and while it was Ronea who got the most amount and highest intensity of it, Filip felt it too.  
  
As the whimpers petered to slow, drawn-out and breathy sobs, Filip knew it was time to move again and he managed to get Ronea on his stomach on the mattress without too much protesting. His husband needed more or less constant bodycontact right now and Filip made sure to keep a hand, an arm or even his foot or mouth rested on him as he got undressed himself. When he was naked, he took the cloth and small vial of cold water he’d prepared in advance and started to wipe his husband’s chest and groin a bit. Then he laid down on his back, carefully arranging Ronea to rest on top of him.  
  
Sometimes Ronea needed space, literally, for a while during aftercare but not tonight and Filip felt the weight of him, how his husband’s tall, hefty body grounded him and he smiled, because the relaxation was all but complete. The chastity had been removed and Ronea’s cock started to fill again, a reaction that stirred the same on Filip.  
  
But sex was the last thing on his mind now. He just wanted to hold his strong, trembling heart in his arms and never let go, erasing any distance left between them as if they were literally one person in this moment, no borders left and no way of telling where either of them started or ended.  
  
Ronea soon drifted off and Filip mused about how he had to make sure his husband felt extra safe and guarded in the next few days to come. He’d need a lot of care for his skin, of course, but also some special treatment to keep the sting and ache on an acceptable level. Massage of his lower back to release more tension, gentle washing and cooling gel, underwears that didn’t itch… Yes, Filip very much enjoyed spanking his husband, but he loved the aftercare and the prospect of spoiling the hell out of him even more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *my heart


	67. Juice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Juice might not be back to his old self, but he's taking tiny steps forward.

Papi’s backside was almost, _almost_ bruised. Deeply red, close to purple and from this angle, with the sheet sliding down, you could see his cock. Juice starred at it, fascinated in a way that felt a bit ridiculous because it wasn’t like he’d not seen, touched, tasted and had it inside him on more than one occasion.   
  
He’d not meant to eavesdrop or look last night, but the cries had woke him up and Daddy hadn’t been angry with him for coming downstairs to check. He had no memory of exactly when his lovers had come to bed and Papi slept really heavy. He was buck naked of course and from the colour of his ass to judge, very sore. Juice felt a sting of jealousy and then kept looking at the man’s cock. Papi was half hard, which wasn’t unusual, and Juice took the sight in of the dark curls around it, the smooth skin, resisting the urge to touch.  
  
Seeing Daddy spank Papi, hard, with the braid thing, had been… thrilling and if he was completely honest, a little scary. He’d heard Papi cry from spankings before but last night he’d been so loud and almost animal like, Juice couldn’t help himself but had to check. And Papi had, of course, been over Daddy’s lap as expected, but Juice had never seen his lover’s bottom in that deep colour before and even with Daddy’s reassuring smile, it had been a little difficult to go back to bed without starting to worry about it.  
  
This morning, how ever, Papi looked so calm in his sleep, Juice stopped worrying. Papi also had some healthy colour on his face, his breathing was deep and steady and he wasn’t at all tense.   
  
“Admiring yer Papi are ye, li’l one?”  
  
Daddy spoke very low and Juice blushed, not realising he’d been watched. He lowered his eyes.  
  
“Sorry, Daddy.”  
“Nothing to be sorry for, lad. Papi is an admirable man, after all. And beautiful.”  
“Very…”  
  
He then remembered he’d went downstairs last night and looked at Daddy.  
  
“Saw you last night, Daddy… Sorry.”  
“We were louder than usual, lovey. Ye weren’t naughty.”  
“Juice watched…”  
“I know.”  
  
Daddy smiled.  
  
“Papi screamed a lot, sweet lad. I would’ve been surprised had ye not woken up. An’ ye dinnae interfer, ye were perfectly respectful so don’ worry about rule breaking because ye dinnae do any. An’ I wasn’t punishing Papi, ye know.”  
  
Juice glanced at Papi’s backside.  
  
“He’s so swollen…”  
“Aye, he is. But ye know tha’ sometimes tha’s wha’ it takes to get to the righ’ head space. Papi’s been pent-up for a long time, Juicy, an’ last night he needed this an’ no less. Does tha’ make sense?”  
  
It did, actually, and Juice nodded.  
  
“Think so, Daddy. He… Papi looks calm. But he’s gonna be so sore…”  
“Ye let Daddy worry about tha’, lovey. I’ve been tending to yer Papi’s sweet arse for more than two decades, ye know.”  
  
Daddy sounded like he was teasing, but there was a warm tone to his voice and Juice saw how he was looking at Papi with that almost adoring gaze, as if he’d never seen anything more beautiful in his life. Juice swallowed.  
  
“Daddy?”  
“Aye, lovey?”  
“I… I liked seeing… seeing you and Papi… Was beautiful, Daddy, so I looked longer than… than I needed to. I know it was your private moment, but…”  
“Don’ get yerself all worked up now, Juicy. I already told ye ye weren’t naughty an’ I certainly cannae blame ye for looking at Papi’s arse. We woke ye up, ye got worried an’ye dinnae want to disturb. There’s nothing more to it than tha’ an’ no cause for a punishment.”  
  
Daddy stroked his cheek now.  
  
“I cannae spank ye yet, sweet lad, but I can tend to yer backside with a shower if ye want to. Papi needs to sleep some more before we head to the clinic. Ye’ll let Daddy shower ye, lovey?”  
  
A shower with Daddy? That sounded like a very good idea and Juice nodded.   
  
“Please, Daddy. _Please_.”


	68. Filip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes not finding the right word is the right thing :)

His lover was still, mentally, more of a child. Filip kept telling himself that while washing the body of a grown man. A body that had lost some muscle mass and not yet added enough fat to make up for it on hips and shoulders. The hipbones and clavicles were too pointy and it was a very strange combination really, as if Juice’s body was a hybrid of an adult, a teen and – considering how utterly open and innocent his face looked right now – a small child. Most days Filip didn’t think about it, being so used to this whole situation, but today he took it in again.  
  
Touching his lad sexually would be wrong in every sence. Honestly, Filip wasn’t even sure if he was able to _think_ of Juice in sexual terms at all right now, no matter how beautiful his body was or what pleasures they’d shared before the breakdown. And Juice’s own wishes were just that: wishes, but not actual lust or want yet. He rinsed the thick hair.  
  
“We’re gonnae see Yara today, lovey. How’s tha’ sound to ye?”  
“Miss her, Daddy.”  
“I know, laddie, an’ I bet she misses ye too.”  
  
The lad closed his eyes now and sighed.  
  
“What if Papi gets… hurt again?”  
“Hurt how?”  
“Last time, he had…”  
  
Juice seemed unable to either name or utter the word and Filip turned the water off.  
  
“A flashback, Juicy. Papi had a flashback.”  
  
He bent forward to kiss the wet hair.  
  
“T’is alrigh’, in fact t’is good to say the word, lovey. Yer Papi has suffered from his PTSD for as long as I’ve known him an’ as ye know, it dinnae send me running for the hills. I’ve had PTSD too, ye know.”  
“From the scars…”  
“Aye, tha’s righ’. An’ healing looks different for everyone, kiddo, but yer Daddies an’ lovers know more about such processes than most people, lil’ darlin’. Stand up, please.”  
  
Juice stood from the little shower stool they’d gotten and let Filip drape a towel around his hips.  
  
“Daddy?”  
“Aye, my love?”  
“Is it… was it because of me that you had to spank Papi so hard?”  
“No, Juicy.”  
  
For a second, Filip considered reminding the lad that not all things that happened in this house were because of him, but realised that would sound wrong. Juice didn’t need to feel like he was taking too much place, quite the opposite, and the worry for being in the way was still lurking underneath and only really kept abay thanks to the meds. Filip smiled at him.  
  
“Ye know tha’ yer Papi has his own difficulties an’ tha’ me an’ him have been dealing with them for our entire relationship, righ’?”  
“Yes, Daddy. I know that.”  
“An’ does it seem logical to ye then, tha’ I’d spank him solely for him worrying about ye?”  
  
The lad startled a little and then shook his head.  
  
“No, Daddy. That… I know that’s not why.”  
“Exactly. The reasons why I spank Papi are my own, laddie, an’ ye don’ have to worry one bit about yer problems causing me to treat yer Papi unfairly.”  
“I… I didn’t mean it like that, Daddy!”  
  
Fuck. He’d scared the lad and Filip shushed him, kissing his hair.  
  
“Hey, shh, don’ be afraid, lil’ one. Ye’re not doing anything wrong by asking, lovey, we gotta start working a bit more on tha’, ‘cause it wont do if ye feel ye’re completely disconnected from the things in our relationship ye used to share with us.”  
“N-never shared that p-part, Daddy.”  
“Ye mean ye’re not present when I discipline Papi, an’ tha’s true, but ye were a part o’ tha’ whole routine an’ t’is a huge part o’ our relationship, laddie. _Of course_ we understand tha’ ye’re feeling left out.”  
“Sorry, Daddy.”  
“Why are ye apologising, laddie? Ye don’ think _we_ miss it too?”  
  
He stroked Juice’s shoulders, placed more kisses on the still wet forehead, the cheeks and nosetip. A small smile was showing and Filip gave a chaste kiss on the curved lips.   
  
“Ye’re our lover, Juice, _not_ our child. But sometimes, a lover – or a husband – can get ill in a way tha’ temporarily changes his mindset. Tha’ doesn’t mean yer grown self an’ all the fun things are lost, lil’ one, jus’… in hibernation.”  
_“Hibernation?”_  
  
The lad looked incredulous for a moment and Filip went through his vocabulary for a replacement when Juice suddenly cracked a big smile.  
  
“Did… did you just compare my limp dick to a _dormant snake_ , Daddy?”  
  
Filip opened his mouth, then closed it, then... the next second both him and his sweet and ill, yet not so innocent lad, fell into a fit of laughter.


	69. Ronea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know I make a lot of "Papi in his kitchen" scenes, but I love to write them, so... Here's some Ronea thoughts <3

Usually numbing cream was counterproductive as hell, but there were exceptions and today Ronea was grateful to ease some of the ache and burn away. He had a good, loving husband who didn’t want him to squirm and be put on display outside his comfort zone and on a more practical note, being unable to focus and take part in Juice’s needs at the clinic, would be wrong and disrespectful for a number of reasons.  
  
Ronea could honestly say he felt a lot better today, more clear in his mind, more _present_ within himself than he’d been in a long time. Apparantly, he’d needed to not just get cried out, but really scream and he’d slept like a baby all night. While making scrambled eggs, fried tomatos and wholemeal toast for breakfast, Ronea watched his husband help their baby boy to stretch on the playmat.  
  
Interestingly, Juice didn’t use his pacifier and Mr. Bunny was placed beside him, not clutched to his chest. He seemed well-rested too, but not jumpy and excited as last time when they’d been supposed to go to the clinic and instead, Juice ended up getting a severe panic attack. Of course, this could mean nothing but Ronea still had a good feeling about it. Or maybe he was just riding the calm waves of love and stability from last night. Whatever it was, he figured he’d earned a little respite. Being a Papi was hard work these days.  
  
Immediately after thinking that, there was a little pinch of guilt but Ronea almost angrily nipped it in the bud and as he sliced the toast in triangles and brewed tea for his husband, he realised that yes, he _was_ working hard.  
  
His husband hadn’t spanked him last night as punishment because honestly, it had been a long time since Ronea _broke_ a rule, either by thoughtlessness or active choice. He liked having rules, for God’s sake, and purposely breaking them wasn’t his brand of being a brat. He got mouthy, that was about as far any blatant disrespect went and usually, Filip had already nipped it in the bud before it came to that point. Last night had been about re-settling, body and mind, and while Ronea admitted he’d loved some rough fucking too, high on the soreness as he’d been, it hadn’t been the right time for that.  
  
It was ridiculous, a 45 years old man blushing like a teen newly in love, but Ronea couldn’t control that anymore than he could bury and forget his need for rules, boundaries and discipline. By not giving in to their cocks last night, by abstaining from sex in favour of the whole re-settling process and especially Filip being strong and stay with what was needed and not just wanted, he’d been the perfect _Dom_ , not just husband and the aftercare had been a floating haze of pure sweetness all the way to the moment when Ronea had been carried upstairs, more than half asleep.  
  
Honestly, Filip shouldn’t carry him like that though. He wasn’t young anymore and should spare his back for when Juice needed him. Ronea would have to scold him a little about that, but on the other hand, it was either that or letting Ronea sleep downstairs, which just wouldn’t happen. Oh well, carrying too much upstairs or not, his husband deserved a reward and Ronea went to the fridge to grab a small package of bacon. Juice, unfortunately, couldn’t have any yet, his tummy was still too sore and Ronea decided the bacon would be for Filip alone so that their baby boy didn’t feel left out from them.  
  
“Ronea?”  
“Jesus!”  
  
Ronea all but shrieked, almost dropping the spatula. He’d been so far off in his thoughts, he’d not noticed his husband coming close and Filip chuckled.  
  
“Sorry, lovey. Dinnae see ye were elsewhere.”  
  
The arms came around him, this soft, claiming hug from behind he loved so much. Filip rocked him slowly, resting his head onto his shoulder.  
  
“How are ye feeling now, lovey?”  
“Better than I’ve felt in a very long time, husband.”  
“Was hoping ye were, but…”  
“But?”  
“Ye’re bruised an’ while ye needed it at the time, I’ll put more numbing cream on as soon as we’re back home again.”  
“Thank you, Filip.”  
  
Not protesting, not saying he’d be fine or didn’t need it, came naturally this morning and made Ronea relax even more into the embrace. Filip kissed his neck.  
  
“When we’re home, ye’re gonnae change to a skirt, no shorts or panties, an’ then ye’re resting, even if we both know ye’re itching to get rid o’ the dust an’ laundry. No house work except for cooking and washing up the dishes today, lovey. Tha’ clear?”  
“Yes, sir.”  
“Good. An’ Ronea?”  
“Yes, baby?”  
“I can see yer feet are getting sore again. Call an’ make an appointment with yer chiropodist before we leave.”  
“Yes, Filip. And thank you.”  
_  
For making the decisions for us all. For being my rock, my steady ground. It’s so much easier for me to find myself, when you’re my focal point…_


	70. Juice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And they're back in therapy. It's the same day as previous chapter and we meet Dilan and Yara again.

“I heard you’ve had some rough days since your last visit, Juice.”  
“I guess.”  
  
It was difficult to focus on anything but Yara right now. He’d missed her so much, more than he’d missed anyone expect for Papi and Daddy and maybe Sr. Lisa, and he’d been afraid the black pitbull with it’s beautiful blue eyes wouldn’t reckognize him.   
  
That had been an unnecessary worry though. Yara had been all over him, waving her tail and licking his face once Cecile, the dog trainer, allowed it and Juice barely heard what she said about the importance of teaching dogs boundaries, especially service and therapy dogs. He buried his face into the fur, sighing.  
  
“Missed you so much, girl…”  
“She missed you too, Juice. She’s been looking towards the gate every day since you left.”  
“Really?”  
“She may not be yours on paper yet, but I’d say she’s yours in every other aspect.”  
  
His? His own? Juice swallowed.  
  
“Does… does that mean she can come home with me?”  
“In a few weeks, yes, providing you keep working well together and with your partners.”  
  
_Partners._ It felt strange to even hear someone referring to Daddy and Papi like that. They were his caretakers, his _guardians_ right now albeit temporarily, but still. He leaned further into Yara, her warmth was comforting. Thinking about having her coming home with him, being his was… honestly still a somewhat dangerous thought to him. He’d been promised or expected or hoped for things so many times, only to end up disappointed.  
  
He sighed, feeling the warmth of Yara.  
  
“What are you thinking right now, Juice?”  
“That I’m better with dogs than people.”  
  
And that was wrong, wasn’t it? Sick even.  
  
“That’s more common than you think. A lot of people prefer the company of dogs, or other animals, to people. Nothing wrong or strange about that, Juice.”  
“Right.”  
“You were saved by a dog once.”  
“Dixie…”  
  
The memories of the worst of his many rotten foster homes had been under lock and key for years and years, until a few months after the relationship with Daddy and Papi started. Juice had shut the door to his past the moment he was out of the system, or so it had seemed for a long time.  
  
There hadn’t been any actual triggers at first. Daddy’s and Papi’s house had no cellar or attic, for starters. And the rules and routines had been so clear, so easy to follow, the fear of making any grave mistakes that violated the contract, was kept to a minimum. He’d been a visitor, a guest, Juice realised as he thought about the first months with his lovers.  
  
It had been a game, a sort of playing house and there was a clear start and stop to it. A control, not just for Daddy and Papi, but he’d been in control as well. Therein laid the difference between the now and the past. Or rather, his childhood and his adulthood in the common terms. The consent was the other thing.   
  
He could give or decline consent now, he could choose to let go of or take back control. Or at least that had been the case at first. Now, the situation was different and that’s where the trust came in. He trusted his lovers to an extent that sometimes scared him and that was one of the reasons it was easier to stay in the mindset of a child because the teen and the adult would just run away in devestating shame and simply the presence of a dog, warming his side wouldn’t be enough this time.  
  
“She attacked him once…”  
“Your foster dad?”  
“Yeah… It was his dog and she just… She wanted to stay with me in the attic and growled if anyone came close. Then one day Orson tried to… and she jump at him.”  
“She bit him?”  
“No, thank God. Had she done that, he’d put her down.”  
“Then what happened?”  
“Nothing.”  
“Nothing?”  
  
Juice shrugged.  
  
“He left me alone and I got my bed back. Not that it was really mine, but…”  
  
He let out a small laughter.  
  
“You know I don’t think I’ve ever had anything that I owned, that was mine before I left the system. Not even my fucking hair…”  
“He cut your hair?”  
“Uh-huh. Shaved it everytime my grades slipped or if he just thought I was getting too cocky.”  
“That’s a really awful thing to do to anyone.”  
“He didn’t just buzzcut it, I looked like a cancer patient.”  
  
He laughed again, not really knowing why.  
  
“You know, one time when I was out grocery shopping with Vera, Orson’s wife,  there was this old lady who thought I had cancer and told me to stay strong and that my _mom_ must be proud of me for helping out despite being ill. Man, you should’ve seen Vera’s face… It almost seemed like she was ashamed of how I looked. I mean, how Orson had made me look.”  
“Did he ever do anything similar to his own children?”  
“Never. Not while I was there.”  
“You were the only foster child?”  
“Yeah. I don’t even know why they took me in, to be honest. S’not as if they were thrilled when the social worker dragged me there and they didn’t need the money.”  
“Perhaps they thought they were doing the right thing.”  
“Do they sound like they were into charity?”  
  
He felt different now, not sad or worried, really, but… This was annoying. He clenched his fists, not realising how Yara put her paws onto them.  
  
“It’s in the past, alright? It happened, I let it happen and then I ran away and it stopped. Okay?”  
“You _let it_ happen?”  
“Look, I wasn’t a _nice_ teenager, Dilan.”  
“I have two teenagers at home who can act like little devils, but that doesn’t mean I hit them or shave their heads. Violence, isolation and humiliation aren’t normal parts of a childhood, Juice. They’re not supposed to be there _at all_ in anyone’s childhood – or adulthood – and we’re not gonna defend anyone but the victim here, which is _you_.”  
  
She sounded almost angry, but not in a scary way. Just… upset and firm. Juice looked up, seeing Dilan’s suddenly very serious face.  
  
“Listen to me, Juice. What Orson did to you, to your self-esteem, your body, your sense of self-value and safety, was completely wrong in very sense, no matter what you did that he thought justified it. He scared, hurt and humiliated a boy he was supposed to love and care for. And it’s time that scared, hurt and humiliated boy gets justice.”


	71. Filip/Ronea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kind of messy chapter with a backstory sequence I've been working on for a while.

Juice was clingy yet calm when they left this time and while Filip honestly was nervous the whole way back, nothing happened and the lad even seemed to feel content. He needed his Papi though and once they came inside, Filip realised he had to abort the plan on having some Daddy time with Juice so Ronea could rest. There was no way this wee one would let go of his Papi yet.  
  
It was still very important not to act surprised by the “age changes” and to accept them as they came, since the lad clearly couldn’t control them, at least not to any significant extent. The therapy session had gone surprisingly well though, according to the therapist, and leaving Yara had gone smoothly, only a few tears and expected worry, but Juice’s mind had stayed in the now and he’d coped really well. Of course, he was emotionally tired and fragile from therapy but snuggling with Papi in the sling while getting a bottle and holding Mr. Bunny seemed to do the trick and as always, Ronea was amazing.  
  
He’d changed back into his skirt once they came home and had his old cardigan on, hair tucked back and sat on the sofa without any visible difficulties. Filip had given him more aloe and numbing cream, but still. Ronea rarely got bruised from spankings since it usually wasn’t needed or wanted. Mostly it happened when Filip had been too lenient with his duties for a time and that wasn’t gonna happen again for a long time. His husband needed firm orders now, a clear path so to say, until he was more stable again and Filip would provide that. It would probably be good for Juice too.  
  
“Did ye call the chiropodist, darlin’?”  
“Yes, Filip. Thursday at 10.30, that okay?”  
“Aye. Ye think ye could take a stroll looking for some shoes as well?”  
“Oh… well, I don’t know if I need any new ones, honestly.”  
“But wouldna ye _want_ some?”  
  
Ronea chuckled.  
  
“You’re spoiling me now, Filip.”  
“Aye. Tha’s a husband’s right.”  
“Then who am I to take that away from you. Only a short stroll, though. I don’t want to be away for too long.”  
“Of course, lovey. How’s the skin?”  
“Nice and sore.”  
  
The smile and slight blush confirmed what Filip already knew – or should know: that he’d not lost control or misread his husband during the spanking. The fact that he needed that extra confirmation told him that he’d not been too good at reading himself lately.  
  
Being a dom, meant being in control so your sub could let go and if said balance fell apart during a particular vulnerable situation, things could go _very_ wrong and Filip internally shivered as the old memory rose to the surface…  
  
***  
  
**Fourteen years earlier, Ronea 31, Filip 35**  
“Stay still, Ronea.”  
“I’m… I’m trying, Filip.”  
  
It hurts, as it should. Spankings aren’t funny. Releasing and fucking amazing in the afterglow, but the pain during a hard spanking is awful. In the right way.  
  
Not today though.  
  
It’s a Saturday and Ronea lays across his husband’s lap for being a brat. Or rather, for being antsy, grumpy and defiant. At least that were the reasons Filip counted up before sending him to get the biggest hairbrush in the house.  
  
He’s very strict today, a lot more than usual and usually that makes Ronea feel safe. Attentive and focused too, because that’s one of the reason why these spankings help him so much. They reel him in, rebuilds things that have fallen apart and the pain sort of sweeps a clear path where everything and everyone but Ronea and his husband is completely shut out. Just the two of them, no one else.  
  
Ronea knows _why_ he’s getting spanked but it’s also one of very few times when he’s not completely sure _how_ Filip’s thinking. Being lowkey disrespectful more out of a generally shitty mood rather than any intentional defiance is usually dealt with by a firm warning. Only if the disrespect continues, there’s cause for a spanking.  
  
Maybe Filip saw or heard something Ronea wasn’t aware of showing? He wants to trust his husband and 99 out of 100 times Ronea does, but this hurt feels different. Filip’s tone is short, almost cold, and he’s making small noises that sound stressful and displeased. And Ronea has laid over his lap for quite a long time now, unable to cry.  
  
“Don’ _squirm.”_  
  
There’s an edge to his strict husband’s voice Ronea hasn’t heard while being disciplined and it’s chilling, sending a very different and unpleasant shiver down his spine, tensing instead of relaxing him. There’s no sense of that special connection, like they’re one and same in this. Instead, Filip seems distant and almost unfocused. The slaps more often than usual land on the same spot several times in a row, not alternating and it’s been going on for minutes now without any reprieve.  
  
Not squirming is pretty much impossible, but the tension sort of helps out with that. Ronea can’t move, he’s clenching all over. Ass, thighs and lower back. Neck and shoulders, hands and teeth. Feet involuntarily starting to kick and the burn is intolerable.  
  
“Please… Please, Filip, _stop._ ”  
“Ye need this, Ronea.”  
  
He doesn’t sound quite as cold now, but it’s still not that gentle, caring voice he uses when Ronea feels unsafe. And if he needs this, the knot should’ve started to unravel several minutes ago. This isn’t good pain, it’s confusing, unsafe and too hard. It’s fucking unbearable.  
  
“Stop it! Fucking… _stop_ , Filip!”  
  
Ronea has never left his husband’s lap before being comforted, this is the first time he’s rolling off with force, down to the floor and quicker than he’d expected, getting up on his feet, pulling his panties and pants back up.  
  
“Wha’ do ye think ye’re doin’, Ronea? Come back here _now_!”  
“Don’t fucking touch me!”  
  
He all but runs out of the bedroom, down the stairs and then outside, moving in any direction away from the house and the man he suddenly can’t read. He can hear the door, hears Filip calling for him and that’s when Ronea starts running for real.  
  
There’s no definite direction, no thought to it other than getting away from his husband.  
  
  
**Filip**  
“The hell did you do to him, man?”  
“Nothing tha’ we dinnae agreed on! Where is he?”  
“Woah, easy now, Chibs. You think barking like that’s gonna help? Venus already wants to castrate you.”  
“This is none o’ yer old lady’s business, Tig. Or yers.”  
  
Tig folds his arms, all but blocking the way in the tiny apartment he shares with Venus.  
  
“No? Then why the hell is your husband crying his eyes out in our bed now, huh?”  
“I was… fuck, I was _spanking_ him, alrigh’? S’not as if tha’s a secret to ye. Now where is my husband?”  
“As I said. In our fucking bed, crying, confused and shit scared.”  
  
Filip startles.  
  
“Scared? O’ _me?_ ”  
“No, fucking Easter Bunny! Yes, _you_ , dickhead! And if you think you’re seeing him before you’ve calmed down, you’re an idiot. Now _sit_ and have a fucking smoke and breathe like a normal person. Jesus Christ…”  
  
He doesn’t want to sit or have a fag but Tig has his _don’t fuck with me or you’ll pick up your teeth from the floor in a minute_ face so Filip angrily obliges. He sinks down on the nearest chair, digs into his kutte for the fags and grunts when Tig offers a lighter. His friend takes one himself and sighs.  
  
“Chibs, I’m not gonna pick sides or shit until I know what’s happened, but man… Ronea looked _scared._ He just came running in here, you know, not even knocking and scared _us_ half to death. He’s lucky our guns were in the locker.”  
  
Filip sighs, rolling his eyes.  
  
“Aye, so now tha’ ye know I’m not some home invader, can ye let me go an’ talk to Ronea?”  
“Are you even listening, man? What part of _scared of you_ don’t you understand?”  
“Wha’ did he say?”  
“Nothing! He’s just crying, barely able to form two words together, let alone an actual sentence.”  
“I jus’ _spanked_ him.”  
“Yeah, we figured, and judging by how he laid down, you were rough on him. I mean, _really_ fucking rough, Chibs. Was that really necessary?”  
“I… “  
  
Was he? Too rough? It didn’t feel like he was… Filip takes another blow on his fag, finally starting to cool his heels. Tig looks at him, eyes worried.  
  
“Has this happened before? Him running away while you’re spanking him.”  
“No.”  
  
It hasn’t. Not once. Tig sighs.  
  
“Then you really fucking overstepped this time, Chibs. I mean, how long have you been together now? Eight years? Nine?”  
“Ten, actually.”  
“And not once has Ronea left you screaming like that, right?”  
“Not like tha’, no.”  
“And now he’s upstairs crying in our bed. The hell’s your problem, brother? He’s your _husband_ , for fucks sake and you promised to take care of him. And I don’t know what you call this, but it’s not fucking _care_.”  
  
  
**Ronea**  
“It was like he didn’t _see_ me, Venus. Like I wasn’t me anymore but… Oh, God…”  
  
He’s not been in this much pain for a long, long time, and laying on Tig’s and Venus’ bed with pants scooted down and a thin blanket for the sake of decency, sobbing while using up a whole pack of tissues feels so humiliating.  
  
“Hey now, baby. Your husband seems to have hit his head and forgotten a thing or two about boundaries, but we’re gonna help you out, okay.”  
“I was a brat, I know I was, but…”  
“Shh, none of that, baby. Mama Venus will help you sort this mess out, alright? Can I have a peek, just so I know what we’re dealing with here and if I need to bring my rolling pin out to teach a certain Scot a lesson.”  
  
Dignity is long since gone and Ronea slips the blanket down for a moment. Venus sighs.  
  
“What?”  
“Apparantly, I was wrong, honey. Your husband didn’t hit his head, he went through some kind of lobotomy and it seems like old Venus has to bring out her surgery instruments asap because this… Sweetheart, I don’t know what to say…”  
“I agreed to this, Venus, I’m just…”  
“No, baby, you didn’t and that’s why you came here.”  
  
She pulls the blanket back up and squeezes his hand.  
  
“Would it be okay if you stay here for a moment while I strangle your husband a bit? Figuratively… I think.”  
“He… he didn’t mean to…”  
“It doesn’t matter what he meant, Ronea. This isn’t discipline, this is abuse no matter if he was aware of it or not. I’m really glad you came over, baby. I’m proud of you, for doing the right thing when he didn’t. Now, excuse me for a moment.”  
  
There’s no point in trying to change Venus’ mind once she’s set on something. Ronea curls back into fetus position, trying not to cry, but he’s so sore and also scared. The spanking started out okay, or so he thought, but then the pain got too strong, locked him in instead of releasing and Filip went rougher, faster, not enough time between the slaps… His husband didn’t hear or see, his eyes distant and voice careless.  
  
Not like Aaron but not at all like Filip either and Ronea cries into the pillow because he doesn’t reckognize the man who did this. The voices outside the bedroom are low and Ronea can’t really hear what’s being said. Maybe Filip is calm now? Maybe he’ll forgive him? But Ronea ran away from him. He ran away during a spanking despite being ordered back. _He ran away to Filip’s friends and didn’t keep this private._  
  
The footsteps outside make him tense. He was a brat, that’s what caused the spanking, but now he’s been blatantly disrespectful and _Filip must be so ashamed of his husband right now._  
  
A knock, far softer than expected.  
  
“Ronea? Lovey, may I come in, please?”  
  
He can’t answer, just sobs and it’s so pathetic, isn’t it? Filip opens the door and the sounds of his boots feel sickening, not comforting at all.  
  
“Jesus, Ronea…“  
  
There’s an increduolus tone to the thick brouge and Ronea hears more steps and then, kneeling.  
  
“I donno wha’… Oh, God, lovey, I dinnae… The hell did I _do_ to ye, darlin’?”  
  
This isn’t the cold, angry voice from before. This is Filip and the voice bears… remorse. Remorse and regret, a _sadness_ that Ronea has never heard before from his husband.  
  
The voice keeps begging and begging for forgiveness, but doesn’t ecxuse himself. There are no justifications, nothing threwn back to Ronea to share the guilt. It’s just Filip, completely heartbroken for Ronea’s bruised backside and the loss of control, the lack of listening, the failure as a top and a husband who’s abused…  
  
“Y-you didn’t abuse me…”  
  
Ronea hates that word. It doesn’t belong with Filip, but his husband keeps crying.  
  
“I did! I absolutely did, lovey, an’ I’ve fucking failed ye, I’ve pissed on our vows, on yer trust, on our marriage…”  
“Please, don’t say that, I was disrespectful.”  
“If wha’ ye did was disrespectful, then I’m a bloody shame on two feet. I swear, I dinnae realise I lost control tha’ bad, but t’is no fucking excuse no matter if I did or not. This jus’ shouldna’ happen, Ronea, an’ t’is completely my fault for not listening, for not being patient an’ reading ye better. If… If ye wan’ me to go away for a while, or leave altogether, I…”  
_“What?!”_  
  
His sore backside is suddenly forgotten and Ronea turns around to his idiot fucking husband.  
  
“You’re not fucking leaving me, Filip Telford! You’re not going anywhere without me, you big fucking idiot! You take _one step_ out of this building without me, and I swear to God, I’ll make soda cans of your stupid little bike. You hear that, you goddamn _cunt_!?”  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
Sir. Not ma’m. No laughing matter, not by far, and Ronea realises his breath has sped up, that he just swore at his husband, in a really nasty way too and fuck, fuck, fuck, he’s been completely out of control, rudeness doesn’t even begin to describe it and…  
  
“God, F-filip, I… I didn’t…”  
“Lovey…?”  
  
He curls up again, so tight he can barely breathe and just whimpers like a little bitch. Filip’s gonna punish him now. This just proved how right he was not to be lenient earlier. Ronea needed a good hiding, something to keep him in line because obviously he’ll just mouth off.  
  
“Ye’re right, Ronea. Please, lovey, I’m not… shite… I’m not gonnae punish ye for speaking the truth. Ye’re completely right ‘cause I was a right bastard to ye… Or as ye put it: a bloody cunt. I hurt ye, I was outta control, I dinnae think an’ I dinnae listen an’ I cannae begin to tell ye how much I despise myself for tha’.”  
  
Wait, what?  
  
“If anyone should be punished, t’is _me_ , lovey. I… I swear I dinnae mean to overstep, but I did an’ tha’s my fault an’ no one elses, ‘cause I wasn’t in the righ’ mindset. I dinnae focus, dinnae care to have a conversation an’… an’ I fucking _bruised_ ye an’ scared ye an’ I’m jus’ disgusted with myself, darlin’. Broke my vows, an’… Mary, Mother o’ Christ, I was a goddamn husband abuser…”  
  
His eyes are sticky from crying and as he looks up, body still all but locked, he sees his husband’s brown eyes, serious and scared. He’s on his knees, literally, hands lost onto his sides because he doesn’t dare to touch him. Like he’s not worthy, like he needs permission and that’s just too much, too far from Aaron’s grabbing, his demands, the tugs and forced hugs after a beating. It doesn’t sync up, this confession, this heartbroken man who’s never overstepped before.  
  
Ronea swallows.  
  
“You scared me…”  
  
He’s never said that before in a similar situation. Not to Filip, not to Aaron, not even to dad after that nasty belt incident when mom had passed.  
  
“I know… Jesus, I know an’ I have nothing to say tha’ justifies it, in any way… I’m so ashamed o’ myself, Ronea, I can barely look at ye…”  
  
Ronea swallows. He’s so sore, but the worst anxiety has eased now.  
  
“Didn’t feel like… like _you_. You… you did it like you didn’t know _why_ , just… just that you had to.”  
  
Seeing his husband cry is awful, because Filip looks like he’s failed with… well, _life._ Like he’s completely lost and just disgusted with himself to a point where Ronea, while still angry and hurt, humiliated and bit scared, wants to comfort _him_.  
  
“I… I forgive you, it’s not a big deal…”  
“Yes it is! T’is a huge fucking deal, lovey. I promised to take care o’ ye, to protect an’ treat ye _right_ an’ failing this miserably is about as big as it gets. I _beat_ ye, Ronea! I… humiliated an’ scared ye so don’ sell yer forgiveness tha’ cheap.”  
  
Their eyes meet again, weary, wet and confused. But Ronea still takes his husband’s hands and while nothing’s forgotten and Filip’s not gonna forgive himself in a hurry, the bond between them is still there, ragged but too strong to break from this.  
  
  
**Filip**  
There are plenty of ways to make up for hitting your spouse. Words. Tears. Sincere declarations of bettering and eternal love, cheap roses from the mall and shite. All of them empty, shitty and useless in Filip’s eyes. When he closes them at night, he can see that terrified, teary face looking at him again, confused and ready to admit any faults, real or imagined, to not get hurt again. And when facing them in the mirror, he can’t help but looking for the gaze that had Ronea shiver in his bones. Filip Telford has never in his life felt so shitty and he’s not gonna let himself off easy.  
  
He doesn’t buy his husband roses, doesn’t take him out on fancy dates or overload him with emotions. He’s not sure what he does is the right thing, but giving Ronea space seems, at least, like the most decent and natural move.  
  
Filip doesn’t ask but nontheless feels very clearly that Ronea doesn’t want him to tend to his skin this time. And sex? Forget about it. Had it not been for the absolute glare his husband shot at him for suggesting sleeping on the sofa, he’d not even dared to use the bedroom. He doesn’t deserve the marital bed when he just violated their marriage. But Ronea thinks differently and Filip will follow his lead now. That’s the only right and decent thing to do.  
  
Ronea has forgiven him, he knows that, but Filip worries it came more out of fear than actual choice. The fear is still there, an insecurity that breaks Filip’s heart and every day he silently picks up the shatters and puts them back together, out of sight from his husband. Neither of them has a thing for grande gestures, so after a couple of days, Filip decides on small ones.  
  
Cleaning both their boots properly, for starters. Filip didn’t last long in the army, but that arsehole seargent made sure he learned how to make leather shine and he puts that knowledge to good use during the rainy February, the time of year when Ronea most frequently curses bikers and roads and muddy boots. His husband doesn’t say anything, but the little glances at the shoe rack and surprisingly clean hallway carpet are appreciative.  
  
Helping out with anything food related would only make things worse, but there’s no rule stopping Filip from bringing home coupons from the MC shop’s costumer area. Venus replaces the magazines and newspapers every week anyway, so if they’re going in the trash… He places them on the kitchen countertop after Ronea’s done with the kitchen for the day, without saying anything. As with the boots, Ronea says nothing either, but one night when Filip comes home, there’s a scent of peaches and sugar and he knows it might not mean anything, but his husband is making peach marmelade and there was an coupon on said fruit that Filip brought home the day before.  
  
Ronea is busy with his jars, three loaves of bread in the oven and his dryer containing some kind of herbs, so the meal that night consists of freshly baked bread with butter and peach marmelade, cold cuts of smoked ham, a potato salad with herbs from the garden and floral tea.  
  
Food is a language and Filip believes he’s become quite good at Ronea’s particular accent. This meal is simple, it’s leftovers but also fresh bread and the marmelade is made from the special offer he brought home from the club. Making the evening meal from it might not be a sign of forgiveness, but it’s definitely a step towards reconciliation. Unless it’s poisoned and considering how good the marmelade tastes, Filip gladly takes his chances.  
  
It’s not poisoned, but his homemaker husband still looks a bit apprehensive during dinner, eyes not as calm as they could be and he’s tired. But he eats, that’s good. When Ronea looses his appetite it’s not a good sign and he’s finishing his meal without any difficulties, re-filling first Filip’s then his own cup and Filip puts his fork down.  
  
“Thank ye, darlin’. Really nice bread.”  
“Thank you.”  
“How about we sit outside for a while?”  
“Sure. Air’s nice.”  
  
Filip brings both their cups. Tea is a part of that food language as well, and when Ronea lights a couple of candles on the back porch, Filip feels like he’s breathing a little easier for the first time in weeks.  
  
**  
Ronea**  
He’s knitting, Filip’s reading and the tea is nice, poured up in their unpainted clay cups with cracks on the brown surface. When he shivers from the air, Filip brings his blue cardigan without a word and it smells of bread and weed, of laundry soap and tobacco, coffee and old use. Of home and comfort. And the last time his husband draped it around Ronea’s shoulders, they were both laughing, flushed from a slow, drawn-out lovemaking and it’s been a long time since Filip touched him like this.  
  
“Ronea? Wha’s wrong, lovey?”  
  
Nothing. Everything. That unnamed something that must’ve gotten broken the last time Filip took him over his knee. When they couldn’t read one another and Filip seemed like someone else. Not Aaron, just not his Filip. And that’s why Ronea starts crying.  
  
“Darlin’… My lil’ darlin…”  
  
Filip doesn’t ask again, just takes him in his arms and that’s all, fucking all, Ronea needs right now. He buries his face into his husband’s chest, sobs all but teared out of his body in chunks, he’s not even sure what’s wrong, if anything’s actually wrong at all.  
  
“I’m so sorry, Ronea… Mary, mother o’ Christ, I’m so sorry…”  
  
But that’s not why he’s crying. No, he already knows how sorry his husband is for the mistake, because unlike what Aaron did, Filip’s overstep _was_ a mistake and as soon as he realised that, he’s done all he can think of to make it better again.  
  
Silly, _eejit_ Scotsman…  
  
“I’m… I’m not sad, Filip… I’m… fuck, I’m _relieved…_ ”  
  
For the regret, the flaws, the fucking possibility of forgiveness given freely. For genuine mistakes that can be put to the past because they wont happen again. For the hands cradling his face, the pepper dark eyes resting on his.  
  
He sniffles, smiling.  
  
“Why don’t you just fucking kiss me, you _muppet_.”  
  
  
**Filip, present day**  
“Hey, _muppet_!”  
“Daddy!”  
“Wha’?”  
  
Two pair of very incredulous eyes looked at him from the couch and Filip was dragged out of his daydream, or memories, really, and he blushed. His husband shook his head, smiling.  
  
“Well, that was one long trip to the highlands, baby. I almost got worried you might not be back for dinner.”  
  
Filip, who was very much back from the highlands, took two steps to the sofa and gave Ronea a long, soft kiss. He could hear Juice giggling a little and then Ronea cupped Filip’s neck, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss. And Filip knew that wherever he’d stray, his husband would be right there, calling him back, holding and guiding him when he lost sight of who they were.


	72. Juice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner preparations and a serious talk with Papi.

“Papi?”  
“Yes, my love?”  
“You… you look tired, Papi.”  
  
Papi turned around from the countertop where he was currently putting shopped veggies in a stew while Daddy was out in the garage. Papi looked a little irritated, but only for a moment and then he showed his kind smile.  
  
“I am, baby boy. But there’s nothing to worry about, okay? We all get tired sometimes.”  
“But…”  
  
He bit his lip, not really sure of how to explain. Papi let the spoon stay in the stew and looked at him. He sure seemed tired and there was this… strange kind of shade over his beautiful face.  
  
“What’s troubling you, Juice? You know you can always tell Papi, right?”  
“I know, Papi, it’s just… Not sure h-how t-to…”  
“Hey, now… C’mere, baby boy.”  
  
Papi went over himself to the playmat, lowered down and opened his arms for Juice to snuggle up into. Papi felt so strong, steady, not quite like Daddy but in his own Papi branded way. Juice sighed, trying to choke a shudder but Papi felt it and stroked his back.  
  
Juice swallowed.  
  
“T-talked about d-difficult things today, P-papi.”  
“Papi figured as much, sweet boy. You want to talk about it?”  
“N-not really. Or… not sure.”  
  
Papi kept stroking his shoulders.  
  
“It’s perfectly fine not to be sure, Juicy. I’ts normal to feel out of balance after a therapy session, you know.”  
“You felt that too, Papi? A-after your…?”  
  
He couldn’t really say it, which was stupid because therapy wasn’t a dangerous word, right? Papi made a little hum and rested his chin on top of Juice’s head.  
  
“Some days, I just felt really tired. Drained, you know, body and mind. Other times I was angry or sad, could yell and punch stuff, not people, mind you, but walls and couches. Sometimes I’d just cry for hours and then there were the times when I just felt like… “  
  
He took a deep breath.  
  
“I felt like my whole world, all that I was and all that I knew was just falling apart and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I… it’s difficult to describe it, baby boy, but I guess one way to put it, is that I felt like pieces of me were literally dying inside and I had no idea what was left of me.”  
“Th-think I m-maybe underst-stand a little of that, Papi.”  
    
He was overstepping now, right? Presuming to understand Papi’s feelings like that. But Papi just smiled again, his eyes not lost somewhere else and the shade seemed more pale now. More like a thin veil.  
  
“You’re right, Juice. In fact, I think you understand more than just a little of how it was for me when I was at my worst. With Aaron.”  
  
Juice shook his head.  
  
“I just don’t understand how he… how _anyone_ could be so awful to you, Papi. I mean y-you’re so nice a-and polite and take s-such good c-care of people.”  
“Well…”  
  
Papi sighed and pulled Juice closer.  
  
“My therapist, Dr. Knowles, used to remind me of how our brains always try to make sense of things, to cope. Because if nothing makes sense to us, we’ll feel so lost and alone we can’t cope. So, in order to survive something we don’t know how to escape, our brain will try to make sense of unacceptable things. And the longer we’re trapped in that vicious situation, the more normal the unacceptable things will become.”  
“Wh-when did it bec-come acceptable, Papi?”  
“When I first met Aaron, I was as convinced as anyone that I’d never be a victim, you know. I think we’re all proned to be convinced of that, as default, baby boy. At least if we have some kind of normal self esteem. It’s only when we’re forced to learn how it feels to be weak and powerless, that we realise we can sink so much lower than we ever imagined. When I was at my lowest in that relationship, I’d gone from thinking I could change him to genuinly believing I deserved to be beaten, threatened and raped.”  
  
This was dangerous territory and Juice shuddered. Papi kissed his hair.  
  
“It’s okay, baby boy. I’m not falling into a flashback, my love. Okay?”  
“Okay, Papi.”  
“My point, sweet baby, is that when people do cruel things to others like Aaron or some of your foster parents did, there is no logical, no acceptable reason for it and that will fuck really badly with our brains. So, we make up the reasons in order to survive, to try and find a pattern and take control over something that really is out of our control.”  
“W-we could’ve r-run away?”  
“We could’ve and we would’ve, Juicy, _if_ humans were conditioned to easily leave at first strike from someone they love and trust that should love and care for them. Sadly, we’re not.”  
  
Papi gave a sad smile.  
  
“You know, in this society and I guess throughout most societies in human history, we’re being taught from a very early age that boys don’t cry, boys don’t need comfort, boys are pathetic if they need protection and so on. We’re taught that being a girl is equal to being weak, that a strong girl or woman is something unusual and therefore thretening or, in some cases, admirable. And a boy or man who does what our fucked up society has decided is weak, like crying or avoiding a fight or running away from danger or whatever, is like a girl and therefore weak and pathetic.”  
  
Juice huffed.  
  
“Girls aren’t weak and pathetic, Papi.”  
“Of course not. In fact, women are often a lot stronger than men, because they’re forced to live in a man’s world and the progress to equality is, to say the least, slow.”  
“I… I didn’t think you liked women, Papi.”  
  
Papi made a little grimaze.  
  
“I have my faults as any other person, baby boy, and unfortunately I have a tendency to feel particularly uncomfortable around women.”  
“Why?”  
“Honestly, I’m not sure. With men I know how to act, I guess. Men who feel threatened by someone like me, are pretty predictable and I learned their patterns early on. In that sense, I guess it’s unfortunate that my mother was so accepting… When I started having girlfriends, as in _friends_ of course, in my late teens, I realised that girls can be just as cruel as boys, only in a different way and I was just a lot less good at handling that.”  
“So it’s like… with men you know what you’re dealing with?”  
  
Papi nodded.  
  
“Yeah, you could say that. And it was a different time then, of course. My generation didn’t exactly grow up with hipster dads who shaved their junk and ordered lattes. Good God, my old man still can’t handle that I use soy milk in my coffee. He’d probably get a seizure if he saw my tea collection.”  
  
Juice giggled at that and Papi snickered too as he added fresh basil and thyme to the stew. Then he looked serious again.  
  
“Sometimes the hardest thing about this, about the PTSD and my past, sweetheart, is to accept how normal I can feel.”  
“How do you mean, Papi?”  
  
Papi folded his arms, leaning back against the countertop and he looked so beautiful in his old cardigan with sleeves folded up, showing his ink and the scars. His hair was in a messy bun and he had dark circles under his eyes. And despite that, or maybe because of it, Juice found him almost breathtaking.  
  
“I mean that sometimes it’s more difficult to accept the normal days, when I feel like I guess any other middleaged homemaker, because the contrast, especially if I’ve just come out of a particularly rough period with more panic attacks than usual, can be overwhelming.”  
  
Something stirred in Juice and he looked at Papi, more closely this time as he realised that…  
  
“Y-you still think, wh-when you’ve had that k-kind of attack, that… that you’re… crazy?”  
  
Papi just looked at him, calm as the cucumber on the countertop he was about to shop to the salad later.  
  
“Every time, baby boy. I crash and burn and die, while watching myself going crazy from a distance. And I see it while feeling it. Completely, fucking crazy.  _Every_ goddamn time _._ ”


	73. Filip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never stop Filip Telford from looking after his husband. Oh, and he better not tease Ronea too much either^^

“Seriously, baby, I’m fine. You don’t have to fuss over me like this.”  
_“Excuse me?”_  
“I’m sorry, sir. I forgot myself, Filip, and I should know better.”  
“Aye, ye should, Ronea. Pants an’ panties down, lovey.”  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
It wasn’t really a sir moment, but Filip appreciated the gesture and gave his husband a kiss on the nape. Ronea scooted down his clothes and laid on the bed to let Filip tend to his skin. He hissed a little which only confirmed the need for more aloe and Filip couldn’t help but rolling his eyes fondly.  
  
“Jesus… Maybe I should call spankings off for a while, until ye take notice o’ yer sorry arse, Ronea.”  
“Yeah, and maybe I should change the menu for a month. There’s an offer on beans and canned sausage this week.”  
  
Had Ronea been another kind of man, Filip would have laughed it off, but unfortunately Ronea was the kind of man who would go through with that threat and over the years Filip had learned what a shitty idea it was to be on bad terms with one who had supreme power over the kitchen. He gave his at the moment not very submissive husband a playful slap on the arse and then bent down to plant a kiss right onto the tailbone. Ronea chuckled.  
  
“Now you’re spoiling me again, baby.”  
“Hard not to, when looking at tha’ gorgeous arse.”  
“Is it sorry or gorgeous, dear husband?”  
“The latter, since ye’re behaving.”  
“Lucky me. Not even I love spankings _that_ much. And speaking of spankings: Juice needs one badly.”  
  
Filip sighed.  
  
“Aye, he does. An’ he’s not yet ready.”  
  
Ronea started to put his clothes back on and turned around.  
  
“No, but maybe he’s ready to talk about it some.”  
“How do ye mean?”  
“Well, he’s been quite grown-up today and he deserves some reckognition for that.”  
  
Filip scratched his beard, frowning.  
  
“Maybe, but how? Ye know he’s likely to bloody combust if he gets over my lap now. Especially with the nappy an’ all.”  
“Not if he’s in chastity and gets some numbing cream.”  
“But I still cannae spank him, Ronea.”  
“Who said anything about spanking him? Why not just hold him over you knee, all dressed, and I don’t know… pat his bottom a bit. Like you do with a fussing baby.”  
  
It wasn’t a bad idea, actually. As long as it didn’t turn sexual or put Juice in a bad headspace, of course. Spankings were very sexual to him and he wasn’t ready for anything like that. On the other hand…  
  
“He was taking risks when ye talked, righ’?”  
“Oh yes. We didn’t actually go into his territories, but he was so focused, so calm and fuck, I almost started crying, Filip. Sure, I was doing most of the talking, but really showed a lot better understanding, baby. He didn’t start bashing himself, he wasn’t shutting down and he didn’t even turn away at any point.”  
“No?”  
  
That was fucking glorious news, really, and Filip couldn’t help but feeling like he’d won the lottery. Ronea chuckled and kissed his cheek, all but beaming.  
  
“Yeah, I know, baby, I’m ridiculously proud too. But as much as our baby boy needed his Papi a little extra last night, he needs his Daddy more tonight.”  
“Ye’re probably right, lovey. An’ I think there’s a certain Papi who needs to kick back with a glass o’ wine an’ a bath after dinner.”  
“That’s not a suggestion, right?”  
“Ye bet it’s not, lovey. T’is an order an’ I expect my husband to obey.”


	74. Ronea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sure, Filip is the head of the house, but Juice sometimes gives him his hands full... And Papi doesn't intefer...

“Don’ toss tha’ pillow, lad!”  
“Why?”  
“Because we don’ toss yer Papi’s couch pillows.”  
“Why?”  
“Because… t’is naughty an’ _uncivilized_ manner, Juice.”  
“Juice isn’t civilized, Daddy.”  
  
Ronea turned away over the sink, pretending to cough to cover up the laugh. His baby boy was being a little brat tonight and Ronea found that he was completely fine with that. The only annoying thing about it, was that Ronea had a very hard time not laughing. In fact, being bratty was a lot better than many other reactions and had this been before Juice’s breakdown, the boy would’ve been over Filip’s lap tasting the hairbrush right after dinner.   
  
“Put tha’ pillow back where it belongs, lad.”  
“Why?”  
“Because if ye don’, ye’re going to the naughty corner.”  
“Juice not going to the naughty corner.”  
“No? Then put the pillow back righ’ away.”  
  
The boy was desperate for a spanking, no doubt, and Ronea pretended being completely occupied with the dishes not to interfer. Filip wouldn’t be pulled into giving a spanking, that wasn’t his style at all, but he would give Juice what he needed and right now, it was firmness.  Juice was running wild from all the emotions he’d gone through and wouldn’t need his Papi until later.   
  
He did pick the pillow up, though, putting it back in place.  
  
“Thank ye, Juice. Now, wha’ do we say?”  
“Sorry.”  
  
The tone wasn’t very respectful, but quite grumpy and that didn’t fly with Filip at all.  
  
“Excuse me? Is tha’ a nice way o’ addressing Daddy, Juice?”  
“No.”  
“Then why, by all saints, are ye?”  
“Feel like it…?”  
  
_Sweet heavens…_ Ronea rolled his eyes.  
  
“Ye do realise, tha’ had ye been Daddy’s _grown-up_ lad now, Daddy would’ve spanked yer bare bottom with the birch rod for tha’?”  
“Juice is _little_ , Daddy.”  
“Aye, ye are. Ye’re an unruly lil’ lad who needs to wind down before bed. No, don’ toss the pillow! Alrigh’, tha’s straight to the naughty corner.”  
  
Filip was good with this, Ronea thought as his husband gently lead the whining boy to the pillow that was the naughty corner. He took it in steps, was calm and firm, not impatient or loud. It seemed like the little talk Ronea had had with Juice made him feel too much and being a brat was the boy’s way of telling that. Filip had no trouble reading it.  
  
It was about trust and safety, really. Juice wanted to be punished even if that wasn’t what he needed at the moment. Not in the usual sense, at least. Filip would never spank him in this Little space but he’d give the boy what firmness he could safely provide.   
  
Ronea wiped the countertop, for once deciding to let the few crumbles under the table be, and poured himself a glass of wine before leaving his husband and baby boy to their little game and head for a long, hot bath. Sometimes, obeying was pure joy.


	75. Juice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another little step forward, I hope <3

He was a naughty boy. _Really_ naughty and he deserved to be punished. Naughty boys got punished, right? Juice was sitting in the naughty corner, knees tucked to his chest and arms around them. He was a little boy, but not too little for a spanking.   
  
But it had been a long time and he’d not been changed after dinner. The diaper was wet and being spanked on wet skin hurt more. Especially if it was urine.   
  
Papi’s bath was running and Daddy was probably going to get the birch rod even if Juice was little. Why wouldn’t he, by the way? Juice hid his face onto his knees, trying to ignore the shivers and the fact that Mr. Bunny wasn’t with him.  
  
Maybe Daddy had taken him? Locked him away somewhere? Poor Mr. Bunny was scared of the dark and now Juice had been naughty and made _him_ suffer for it.   
  
“Juicy? Please, look at Daddy, lovey.”  
  
Daddy sounded softer now, but still firm, and Juice peeked up, only to see Daddy holding out Mr. Bunny.  
  
“Found a friend o’ yers who wanted to make ye company, laddie.”  
“Mr. B-bunny…”  
  
He stuttered again and clutched his friend to his chest. Daddy stroked his hair.  
  
“No one’s hurting Mr. Bunny, Juice. In fact, t’is against the house rules to hurt wee bunnies in any way. Ye gonnae sit here for jus’ a couple o’ minutes more an’ then we’ll talk. Alrigh’?”  
“O-okay, Daddy.”  
“Good boy.”  
  
But when Daddy rose to leave, Juice grabbed his leg.  
  
“Wha’s wrong, lad?”  
“Not… not alone… Please, Daddy?”  
  
He didn’t expect Daddy to stay. He’d been naughty, after all, but then he felt the man slide down by the wall too and sit next to him.  
  
“Daddy’s staying, lovey. C’mere, my boy.”  
  
Juice curled into his arms, sobbing already, and Daddy stroked his back.  
  
“Shh, lil’ one, world’s not falling apart, ye know. Daddy will have a chat with ye an’ then I’ll correct ye, an’ Mr. Bunny can stay with ye all the time an’ nothing bad’s gonnae happen to him. Or ye.”  
“W-was bad, Daddy.”  
“No, Juicy. Ye were _naughty_ , but not _bad_. We don’ use tha’ word to describe ourselves, lovey.”  
  
Juice sniffled and got a kiss on his hair.  
  
“’M wet too, Daddy.”  
“An’ I’ll change yer nappy in a little while, darlin’. Ye know, I understan’ why ye’re being a brat today, Juice, an’ t’is not because ye actually wannae be naughty, righ’? Ye jus’ wan’ a spanking but it’s very clear to me, tha’ ye’re not big enough for it.”  
  
Now Juice cried more because Daddy was right but he still missed it, still wanted yet also not wanted it… It was all so confusing.   
  
“S-sorry, Daddy…”  
“I know, lad, an’ ye’re forgiven. Daddy understands. Now, ye know I don’ spank kids or people who’re in tha’ kind o’ space, righ’?”  
“I-I know, Daddy.”  
“Good lad. But wha’ I _can_ do, is to let ye lay over my lap an’ give some non-hurting pats outside yer nappy.”  
  
He could?!  
  
“Please, Daddy? _P-please?_ ”  
“Alrigh’, laddie, c’mere, let’s go to the couch. Ye wan’ me to change ye before or after?”  
“A-after, Daddy? S’not soaked.”  
“Okay.”  
  
Daddy took his hand and they went to the livingroom. Mr. Bunny came with them too and the Daddy sat down on the couch and patted his knee.  
  
“On my lap, Juicy. Aye, ye can hold Mr. Bunny.”  
  
Settling across Daddy’s lap with pants still on felt strange and new and a little wrong, but the wet diaper added some of the _right_ embarressment and when Daddy popped the pacifier into his mouth, Juice felt a little better. He wiggled until he found a comfortable position and then Daddy very gently started to pat his diapered bottom, just like one would do with a baby to calm it down and Juice kept crying even if it didn’t hurt one bit.  
  
“Tha’s my good lad… Daddy loves ye so much, lil’ one… Ye’re my wee one, an’ ye can _always_ let Daddy take care o’ ye. Ye jus’ need to ask, sweet boy, an’ not try to provoke me to it.”  
“I’m s-sorry, Daddy.”  
“I know, lil’ one, an’ Daddy is sorry too, tha’ I cannae give ye wha’ ye wan’ yet, but sometimes tha’s the best option, to abstein. Sometimes wha’ we wan’, isn’t wha’ we _need_ , ye know.”  
“I know, Daddy. J-juice’ll b-be good a-again.”  
“Thank ye, Juice, ye’re forgiven, an’ I know ye’re a good lad. Now, come an’ give Daddy a cuddle, aye?”  
  
Daddy’s cuddles. Sometimes nothing could beat them. Juice buried himself onto the crook of his neck, sniffling while Daddy rocked and cooed him.  
  
“I dinnae _punish_ ye now, ye understand tha’, righ’ lovey?”  
“Y-yes, Daddy.”  
“Proper wee ones, actual babies often feel comforted when ye hold an’ jus’ pat their nappy gently, ye know. Not as a chastisement or to hurt in the least, but to make’em calm down and comfort them. I know t’is still a foreign thought for ye, laddie, but spanking wee ones or people in _yer_ current form o’ Little Space isn’t good or healthy, Juicy.”  
“Ho-how are you s-so sure about tha-that, Daddy?”  
“Well… Here, blow yer nose first, laddie.”  
  
Daddy held out a tissue and Juice blew his nose and wiped his face a bit. Daddy then smiled and kissed his forehead before leaning him back onto his shoulder again.  
  
“Such a good, sweet lad.”  
“W-was bad, Daddy. Juice was _bad_.”  
“Lovey, Daddy jus’ tol’ ye a moment ago tha’ we don’ use tha’ word about ourselves.”  
“So-sorry, Daddy.”  
“Did people use tha’ word to describe ye when ye were a wee one, Juicy? When ye were still agewise a child?”  
“A lot, Daddy.”  
“As I suspected…”  
“ _Was_ a bad kid, Daddy.”  
“I can assure ye, lovey, tha’ ye were no worse than any other kid, especially considering how poorly ye were treated. I caused plenty more shite as a lad an’ teen, ye know, an’ getting da’s belt or punter dinnae make me behave better at all. Only made me scared an embarressed an’ taught me how to become better at lying. But I wasn’t a bad person, lil’ one. I was merely growing up. An’ I was shite scared o’ da’s hands an' belt an’ punter. An’ his voice when I knew I was about to get a hiding.”  
“H-he had a scary voice, Daddy?”  
“Aye, when he was drunk or angry or both. My da’s never been good at handling feelings, ye know. Or women an’ children. I know he mostly did his best, but he could be a real prick sometimes. I never felt much respect for him, t’was jus’ fear an’ discomfort tha’ too many people believe is respect once they’re no longer tha’ scared child.”  
  
It was calming to just listen to Daddy explaining while being cuddled. Juice sucked on his pacifier and relaxed further into the embrace.  
  
“Ye see, Juicy, I trust science an’ actual facts on this issue, not ‘this is how we’ve always done’ shite. There’s a lot o’ shite we’ve done jus’ because we’ve ‘always’ done it, but quite often we try an’ change our ways when we’ve been convinced there are better ones. Spanking, hitting, slapping or whatever ye call corporal punishments o’ kids, _don’_ work as we once thought. They only make us aware o’ tha’ a bigger person, someone we’ve hopefully learned will protect and care for us, for some reason our kiddy brains cannae grasp, can hurt us jus’ because they’re bigger an’ there’s _no_ natural signal to the brain telling us tha’ this or tha’ will cause a slap or a spanking.”  
  
Daddy kissed his neck.  
  
“Ye were no different as a kid in tha’ respect than I was, Juicy. People who use violence like tha’, often wont even consider the fact tha’ they’re causing actual harm. My da did wha’ my grandda did to him an’ had I gotten kids as a young man, there’d been a huge possibility tha’ I’d taken up at least some part o’ tha’ myself. I’m not sure about Papi, but he got spanked too an’ he’s never said an appreciative word about it.”  
“But… Papi _likes_ getting spanked, Daddy.”  
“Ye’re telling me ye feel the same over my lap, as ye did when ye got spanked as a kid?”  
“Noo… No w-way, Daddy.”  
“Thank God. We like spankings in this house, aye, but we love science more an’ each other the most. If Papi came to me today an’ said he couldna’ take another spanking from me ever again, I’d lock my discipline cabinet an’ hand him the key.”  
“Just like that?”  
“Well, we would of course have long discussions about it an’ it would most likely take a long time for us to work out a different way o’ living, but I can only hand out tha’ kind o’ discipline to Papi or ye, if I know tha’ it’ll do ye good. Ti's an absolutely _gut-wrenching_ feeling to realise ye’ve given a spanking tha’ wasn’t earned an’ needed.”  
  
Juice kept sucking and nuzzled Daddy’s neck.  
  
“Daddy?”  
“Aye, sweet lad?”  
“Juice was naughty ‘cause he… wanted a spanking.”  
“I know, lil’ one. An’ ye expected me to pull yer nappy down an’ give ye a proper one on yer bare bottom, righ’?”  
“Uh-huh.”  
“An’ how do ye think ye would’ve felt if I’d done tha’? Be as honest as ye can, Juicy, this is not a test or an interrogation. There are no wrong answers as long as they’re wha’ _ye_ feel is true for ye righ’ now.”  
  
That was one of the more difficult things about this and Juice sighed a little, getting a soft stroke on his back.  
  
“Take yer time, lovey. Daddy’s righ’ here for ye an’ I wannae hear wha’ ye think an’ feel because yer thoughts an’ feelings are jus’ as important as mine an’ Papi’s.”  
  
Daddy’s gentle voice, his patience and guidence helped as much as the cuddle. It calmed him like a real spanking would’ve and Juice felt himself relax a little bit more.  
  
“Feel… feel like… I both wanna and don’t… Like I n-need a sp-spanking but I d-don’t want one. But it’s… not quite like… _before_ , Daddy.”  
“Ye mean like before ye turned ill an’ we paused the spankings?”  
“Uh-huh. I… I don’t know how to explain it.”  
“Ye’re doing _so_ well, lovey, explaining this to Daddy. I’m so proud o’ ye, Juicy, this is really helpful to Daddy, listening to _yer_ words about it.”  
  
Praise. Even when it was difficult to accept it, _some_ amount of Daddy’s praise always seemed to get through in one way or another. It made Juice feel safer, a little more secure in Daddy’s arms but he still missed something.  
  
“Daddy, c-can you please jus’ pat me again? Like… like when I was _over_ your lap? Like… like I’m…”  
  
He blushed now and hid his face further into the man’s neck.  
  
“Like I’m _really_ little…”  
“Of course, laddie. Daddy’s got ye, sweet boy. No shame, my love."  
  
The patting was even lighter now, more of a firm rubbing over the diaper and it was so relaxing, to the point where the wetness didn’t bother Juice at all. He nuzzled Daddy’s stubbly skin.  
  
“Juice is wet, Daddy. Has a wet diaper… would’ve _hurt_ , Daddy…”  
“Aye, it would’ve, lovey. Spankings on wet skin aren’t nice at all, an’ urine is extra bad. Would ye’ve wanted tha’?”  
“B-big Juice m-might’ve, Daddy.”  
“But not _Little_ Juice?”  
  
He shook his head and got more solid, comforting pats.  
  
“An’ Daddy would never ever spank Little Juice like tha’, lovey. This, patting yer diapered bottom, is as far as I’ll go with Little Juice an’ I wouldna go any further until I was _certain_ tha’ Little Juice had stepped aside for _Big_ Juice again.”  
“Was a _brat_ though, Daddy…”  
  
Daddy chuckled.  
  
“Aye, an’ an adorable one. Don’ get me wrong, lovey. Being defiant jus’ for the sake o’ it is naughty behavior an’ t’is _always_ better to try an’ _talk_ about wha’s going on in yer head instead o’ causing mischief to earn a correction.”  
“I know, Daddy. Sorry for being naughty.”  
“Don’ beat yerself up about it anymore, laddie. Testing boundaries is a completely normal part o’ growing up an’ while I don’ appreciate naughty behavior, I do think tha’ there’s a part o’ Little Juice tha’ needs to re-learn tha’ discipline isn’t equal to being scared an’ hurt. Being a brat doesn’t mean Daddy an’ Papi loving ye any less, _mo chridhe*._ ”  
“Promise?”  
“Jesus Christ, laddie, _of course_ I promise. Ye’re the apple o’ my eye, Juicyboy an’ one day I pray ye’ll feel how much I love ye, even when ye’ve been naughty.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *my heart


	76. Filip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand the Daddies have a Papi cling-on.

His lad had been so good during the talking and Filip had to make an effort not to go all sappy about it. Juice needed a lot of firmness now and the safety of his Little space. After their talking Filip changed his nappy and decided that potty training was off for the night. He could feel on the lad’s tummy that he needed to go, but when Juice looked worried, Filip knew he had to let him lapse into the babylike space.  
  
Filip washed and dried him properly, added some baby powder and then put a fresh nappy on.  
  
“Ye’re using the nappy for when ye need it tonight, Juice. We’ll change it again once ye’ve used it, alrigh’?”  
“Juice go diaper, Daddy?”  
  
Little space, indeed. Filip smiled and kissed his forehead.  
  
“Aye, Juice go potty in his nappy an’ when he’s ready, Daddy or Papi will change it again.”  
“Juice not go potty. Is for big boys.”  
“Aye, an’ ye’re a wee lad tonight, lovey. Wee lads go in the nappy an’ then they tell Daddy or Papi so they can change their bums.”  
“Juice wants Papi. Papi gone, Daddy?”  
“No no, sweet boy. Listen carefully. Can ye hear something?”  
“Glass, Daddy?”  
“Tha’s righ’, lovey. Papi is done with his bath an’ is in the kitchen preparing the evening tea an’ yer bottle. He’s righ’ here, lil’ one.”  
  
But Juice’s lip started to quiver and in that moment he was so much of an actual baby it almost got Filip worried.  
  
“J-juice wants _Papi_! _Papi!_ ”  
  
Fast steps confirmed that a certain Papi had abandoned the tea and he showed up in the bathroom with hair a little ruffled, immediately sinking down to the changing mat and his already crying boy.  
  
“Aww, sweetheart, c’mere. Does Papi have a tired baby?”  
“Papiii…”  
“Oh, baby boy, Papi’s right here. What’s with the tears?”  
“T-t-tossed Papi’s pillows!”  
“Lord almighty, Juice, I’m not angry with you for that. Papi already forgave you and everything’s just fine, my little love. And look, Daddy changed your bum already. You had a good chat with Daddy?”  
“Uh-huh… S-sorry, Papi…”  
“Please, don’t be, Juice. Papi is completely fine and the pillow is back where it belongs. Did you go potty?”  
  
Filip shook his head.  
  
“It’s nappy night tonight. And Papi night too, I think.”  
  
He smiled at his husband who kept rocking his lad. Juice sure needed some of Ronea’s mothering right now. He’d been so brave and done so well in his more grown-up space and was most likely about as exhausted from it as he’d been from the emotions leading up to the chat. The pacifier had fallen out of his mouth and Filip put it back in place.  
  
“Is the bottle prepared, lovey?”  
“Yes, it’s on the stove. Just need to pour it.”  
“I can do tha’ if tha’s alrigh’?”  
“That would be really helpful, baby. I’ve got my hands full here.”  
“I’ll bring the sling.”  
“Thank you, Filip.”


	77. Ronea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Been on a busy schedule this week so this chapter is long overdue. Papi is reflecting about his boy.

Most people would probably find this unhealthy and wrong, treating your lover like an infant, and Ronea can’t blame them for that. He’s not into age kink himself but fully accepts and respects people who are. It’s their choice, their bodies and minds and he’s not one to talk with his obedience kink anyway.   
  
No this, bottle feeding his 30-year-old lover in his lap isn’t sexual in any way, nor is it meant to be degrading or humiliating. It’s about meeting Juice where he is and accept which ever Juice that is in said moment. Right now it’s the place and feelings of a baby who needs his nurturer and stuffed bunny. A tiny human who never got what he needed while growing up and now tries to fill up some of that empty space, as much as it’s possible.  
  
Ronea doesn’t remember his first years, of course not, but this isn’t about actual memories but instincts. The kind of memories that become one with your skin, your hands reaching up for that huge person who’s your source of comfort, love and happiness. If that empty space in Juice’s wounded little heart can, not be refilled but at least stop being empty and aching with hunger, with the help from a bottle, a sling and a lap he’s physically too big to curl up completely in, then Ronea will provide it for as long as needed.  
  
His sweet lover can get right down high on being humiliated in the right way, within the boundaries and rules all three of them set together in what now seems like ages ago. This, as far as Ronea is concerned, isn’t a contract breaking or a new path, it’s a temporary road blocker they all want to pass – Juice more than anyone.  
  
Ronea nuzzles the hair that needs to be trimmed, making a mental note about not forgetting that perhaps haircuts are traumatic for _this_ Juice, the one who’s falling in and out of different head spaces and who’s having some really awful memories of violent head shaves. Of being deprived of self-respect, bodily boundaries and pride. Of having the entire body system react and put the siren on, screaming of danger, attack, run _and hide for heaven’s sake because I’m gonna get hurt again_. It’s not always the broken bones or flashbacks of slowly loosing more body heat than you thought were possible that hurts the most.  
  
Sometimes it’s the smallest things and you can feel embarressed about your reactions. Hair grows out, it’s nothing, how can you even think about fucking hair when you had your cat killed at the same time? Fucking pussy.  
  
Tara Knowles helped a lot with that, the shame and way Ronea couldn’t shut off this constant compairing. Like it was a contest, a test he had to pass when in fact, there wasn’t and certainly no price to win. Learning to accept that some days, the memory of the scissor was way worse than the St Andrew’s cross or limp furry body in his arms was difficult but he got there. Eventually.  
  
Ronea kisses his boy now, bottle is almost empty and the hair that’s lost it’s form and looks very ragged and uneven smells sweet and warm. Not like a baby, Ronea honestly doesn’t know that smell, but this scent is one of softness, of care and family. Of belonging. In this home, this family, it’s not strange or wrong to mourn a stuffed bunny like you mourn a pet. It’s not stupid or shameful to be afraid of scissors and the darkness, of not being able to control your bladder and bowels, sucking on a pacifier and screaming for Papi like a small child because if you refuse to meet your loved ones where they are, then how will they ever know if you’re gonna be there at all?  
  
Perhaps Juice needs to catch a glimpse of what normal responses to a child’s needs can look like, to be able to leave the nest, so to say. If every need you have has been met with mostly negative reactions, you’re gonna learn shame and guilt, fear and self-hatred. That throwing a pillow across the room isn’t a reason to be beaten or threatened.   
  
His baby boy drops the bottle now, having finished it and Ronea kisses his crown again.   
  
“You’re full now, sweetheart?”  
“Is, Papi.”  
“You’ll get your pacifier when we’ve brushed your teeth, alright?”  
“Okay, Papi.”  
  
He didn’t stutter now, which was a good sign and Ronea put the bottle away and tucked the cuddly blanket around his brave, weary boy and the stuffed bunny. Juice curled up closer, making himself as small as possible to fit and Ronea let him. It was a little bit uncomfortable for his own spine and especially the swayback, but he could endure that for a moment until Juice’s stomach had digested the almond gruel some.   
  
It felt a little sad that this was something Juice and Ronea couldn’t really share with Filip. Ronea felt guilty about it despite knowing it wasn’t his or anyone’s fault or even choice to begin with and he looked at his husband who was reading in the armchair. Filip had his reading glasses on and seemed completely absorbed by his book.   
  
“Baby?”  
“Aye, lovey?”  
“Could you please make us some tea?”  
“Of course. Herbal?”  
“Yes, please. I think there is some peppermint mixture left in the pantry, probably in the back.”  
“I’ll get it for ye.”  
“Thank you, love.”  
  
It meant a lot, the small gestures. The little thank you:s and pleases. A cup of tea, the brushing of a hand onto the cheek. A smile, a pet name. The safety in knowing that love didn’t need to be grandiose or exciting. That trusting someone to want the best for you, wasn’t the same thing as taking it for granted.   
  
Humans, Ronea thought as he rocked his now very sleepy boy, were such vulnerable creatures, stubbornly refusing to admit it, even when they broke like fragile tea cups dropped on the floor, screaming _we’re fine, we’re fine,_ with the shatters laid bare for everyone to see, even if everyone chose to close their eyes.


	78. Juice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another nightmare...

It’s a feeling more than a notion, still undefined but not scary. As if a long since forgotten memory of something good, something warm and safe is coming back to life. It has no timeline, no actual moments to serve as points to guide him, but it seems like he doesn’t need them. It’s only small trigger points, little sparkles of happiness long ago that has to do with gentle hands, smiles and loving eyes.   
  
In little Juan Carlos’ mind it’s painted in black and white, like the habits and veils surrounding those hands and faces. Hands that didn’t hit or tug, eyes that didn’t look in disappointment and disgust, voices singing and calming during a nightmare. Sr. Lisa handing him the stuffed bunny, teaching him about the importance of being gentle with little bunnies and use a kind voice with them and little boys as well.   
  
Yes, it’s a sweet memory stirring a nice feeling and then it’s ripped apart. The veils disappearing behind him as the car drives further and further away, the still unfamiliar voices and the sound from the radio, the candy he can’t manage to eat and the tears, the snot rinning down into Mr. Bunny’s fur and then the sudden anger, the sharp turn into the side road and big hands, far bigger than the nuns’ grabbing his tiny body, tugging down pants and underwears, smacking down over and over again.  
  
The cut between what was and what’s coming is so sharp, so complete it’s like having an entire life cut off. The time with the nuns was one of love and care, but far too short and the shock of the separation kills a part of the trust Juan Carlos has for others. Like the bunny burned to ashes, that piece of trust never comes back, and for good reasons. The feeling of good things since then is always tainted by the risk of it going up in flames.  
  
He learns quickly how useless, stupid and naughty he is and while it’s unconscious, it stirrs trigger points back to a time when he couldn’t form real memories, when he was an infant crying for someone, anyone, to pick him up, change his leaking, cold diaper, feed his empty stomach and please, please God, _just hold him.  
_  
For many years after the separation from the nuns, he’s angry with them because the memories formed by a four-year-old suddenly ripped away from all comfort and into the hands of two people who regret ever picking him up, aren’t logical. It’s then and now. Before there was comfort and now there isn’t. He doesn’t understand the rules of this angry man who demands to be called dad, or the constantly annoyed woman who sends him to his room when he wont give her a hug.   
  
On the outside, they seem like the perfect couple, all smiles and with respectable jobs, a nice house and committed to their local church and baseball team. Much like the couples who years earlier wanted a cute little baby boy couldn’t handle a bundle of colic and lack of eye contact, these two can’t understand that a four-year-old isn’t an item meant to perfectuate the picture of a nice middle-class family. He’s got nice clothes, nutricious foods and plenty of toys, but insists on dripping snot on a peeing in them, refusing to eat and crying for an old stuffy.  
  
Perhaps the worst thing about it, is how casual it is, the lack of empathy. It’s a pattern that will follow like a theme throughout most of Juice’s childhood and adolescence. The blatant disrespect for the fact that it’s a little human they’re in care of. Supposed to care for. They all seem genuinly confused over the fact that the human, as he’s growing up, doesn’t repay that lack of love with respect and gratitude. The initially welcoming arms are dropped faster and faster as the years go on because _you can’t expect people to understand you unless you open up, Juan. You have to make some effort too, Juan. I know it’s hard, but you need to do your part, Juan. It’s not easy for them either, you know.  
  
If you weren’t such a selfish boy, people would’ve loved you..._  
  
Wet pillow. Soaked, really. It happened often when he was younger and cried himself to sleep only to wake up from crying as well. On occasions, there was someone giving some comfort, but it was always brief, just a sip and nibble of it and never enough to fill him. It only made him long for more of the things he couldn’t have.  
  
“Papi’s here, Juicy… Shh, sweet boy, you’re safe, my little love…”  
  
That something that’s been partly broken since leaving the nuns hurts more than ever now. It’s almost unbearable, this feeling of almost having the comfort, the safety and not knowing when it’s going to be taken away, only that it’s gonna happen.  
  
Juice wants it to last, just a little bit longer, a few more moments of this blissful ignorance of reality before these soft hands and loving voices fade away again. They always do and some nights he can’t stop the tears he’s bottled up. The loneliness freezes the glasses of the bottles and they crack and explode, splashing the content everywhere.  
  
_Such a rude and selfish boy, making a mess like that. You big cry-baby._  
  
“Oh, baby boy, please, wake up, angel. You’re not alone, Papi and Daddy are right here with you. It’s just a bad dream, Juicy…”  
  
Once there was black cotton fabrics soaking his tears up, a grey veil to grab onto, then a cuddly bunny and then just the pillow. When they got too many, he learned to contain them but now the bottles aren’t shattered, they’re opened and there’s a vessel prepared for the content.   
  
“Lovey, c’mere, my sweet lad… Come to Daddy…”  
  
He knows these arms, these scents, these voices.   
  
Strong hands that are soft too. A chest, warm and big. He fits there, he’s _allowed_ to fit there, the hands aren’t shoving him away or smacking him. They’re gentle and kind, kisses like little drops onto his wet cheeks.  
  
“T’was a bad dream, laddie. Ye’re safe, Juicyboy…”  
  
Is he? For now, maybe, but the bottles are broken now, shatters everywhere and it’s too much, too many of them cutting into him, impossible not to step on. It’s not fair and Juice grabs Daddy wherever he can reach with aching fingers.  
  
“I… I don’t _wanna_ dream anymore! Make it stop! Please, make it _stop_!”


	79. Filip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Twentyfour years. Has it really been that long since the late night in the E.R.? Since he fell on spot for his patient and broke protocal by giving a note with his number.

Once this was normal to him. Normal as in the usual. Filip nurses his cup of tea, forgetting how tired he is. He’s not young anymore, after all. Not actually old either, but definitely not young and that’s where the difference lies, he thinks. The fact that his joints and muscles are protesting more now than fifteen, twenty or twentyfour years ago.  
  
Twentyfour years. Has it really been _that_ long since the late night in the E.R.? Since he fell on spot for his patient and broke protocal by giving a note with his number.  
  
_You saved me, baby_ , Ronea had said after their wedding. _I’m not joking, Filip, you really saved me that night._  
  
Big words, sure, but they were true. He didn’t feel like a saviour though, there was nothing extraordinary with what he did, not in his book. That was before he understood just how badly some people treated those they claimed to love.  
  
_How can you stand it, man?_  
  
Eight years later, Tig spoke with a low voice in the hospital room where Ronea was finally asleep. You looked up, moved your gaze from the bruised hands on the blanket, one with a plastic band over the swathes, the other with a needle. Your eyes were wet and you couldn’t understand the question.   
  
_Wha’ do’ye mean?  
  
Chibs, it’s not an accusation, brother. I’m genuinly wondering. I mean, it takes a lot…  
  
_Your husband’s hands like blue, purple and pale flowers, still, broken from another fight with an invisible enemy. You took one of them, it felt cold in your hand, withered.  
  
_I don’ know. Jus’ as I don’ know how he… how he’s still…  
_  
Fighting. Breathing. Stumbling back from the abyss, again and again and again. After a while you both forgot to ask yourselves how it felt. It’s all about trying to keep away from the edge and when that fails and you have to climb back up again, there’s no time for that kind of questions. You can’t waste your limited strenght.   
  
The black hair was messy on the pillow and you tucked it behind his ears, grateful that he didn’t hear Aaron’s voice in his sleep. That would’ve shown, but he was asleep, his breath even and you didn’t have to hold him by force anymore. He wasn’t hurting himself, wasn’t fighting invisible monsters now, but laid still in the hospital bed, battered but not defeated. The hands would heal, the heart too. It had to, at least enough to keep beating.  
  
You didn’t feel your own exhaustion until Tig approached and put his arms around you. It had been a long time since anyone aside from Ronea comforted you like that. Usually you didn’t need it, to fall apart in the arms of someone but you were so tired, so heartbroken and it all hit you like a punch to the guts.  
  
You cried and cried in that room, trying to keep it down to not wake up your sedated husband because you _really_ didn’t know. Eight years together and you’d already forgotten how the steel had hardened beneath your kutte. Ronea wasn’t the only one forgetting his own strenght. Neither of you wanted to think about why it was there in the first place, perhaps worried that the extension of it all would become too much to bear if you faced it head on. If you realised what it had cost you.   
  
Now, this morning in this livingroom, you know the price you paid and it was worth it. There’s no such thing as fifty-fifty here, there never is, but the checks and balances between you and Ronea and the PTSD are a lot more fair now, not that there’s such a thing as a universal fairness measure. If you think there is, you will never ever be happy.   
  
You’re not crying now, no one in this room is. Juice is sleeping in Ronea’s arms, tucked into the soft blanket with the stuffed bunny and pacifier in place. Ronea is asleep too, head tilted onto the couch pillow and with rosy cheeks, not from health but from hours of hard work. It takes a lot of strenght and effort to pull someone back from the abyss, you know that all too well.    
  
Both your lads have had a hard night’s work behind them but it’s not going to be normal. It’s the _usual_ right now, yes, but you’re never gonna allow it to be your _normal_.   
  
You still believe, deep down, that with every nightmare you loved ones don’t have to live through alone, there’s another piece of the past that looses some power over them and is forpassed to the section of memories that have become dormant and impotent.   
  
You have to believe it. There’s just no other option.


	80. Ronea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some chastisement and a small yet much needed conversation between two husbands.
> 
> I've been kinda stuck with work and also "Eleven Heartbeats" of lately, so this update is long overdue.

It’s such a wrong timing, so wrong Ronea honestly wanted to kick himself but that would just make it even worse. Kicking was simply forbidden in this house and so was hurting yourself. Self-injuries coming from a panic attack or something similar didn’t count, of course, but to deliberately smack or kick yourself was a big no-no.  
  
He’d not meant to start this morning by being snarky, not at all, but he did and sure, he was tired but there was still no excuse for calling Filip a _dick_ for reminding Ronea to not exhaust himself.   
  
_I’m not stupid, Filip, you don’t have to be such a dick about it.  
  
_Stupid is as stupid does, as Forrest Gump said, and instead of kicking himself, Ronea was peeling a piece of ginger in silence by the kitchen table. Filip was not happy with him right now, not at all and had taken to the office/livingroom space to prepare in his own way. This wasn’t going to be a fun spanking at all and the only comfort right now was the fact that Juice was deeply asleep.  
  
As always, there was this feeling of utter embarressment for submitting to this. To be treated like a naughty boy, but on the other hand, that was exactly how Ronea had acted. He finished peeling the ginger and then folded his hands in his lap. He was already starting to harden, he often did when Filip brought him back like this. Submission and obedience were his biggest turn-ons and while it wasn’t a problem during other forms of spanking, it definitely was when he was about to be punished.  
  
“Are ye done, Ronea?”  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
Filip took up the ginger, then the rod Ronea had fetched from the garden and nodded.   
  
“Ti’s well done. Pull yer pants an’ panties down an’ bend over the table, please.”  
  
His cock pressed too hard against the fabrics already and Ronea blushed as he bent over, spreading his legs as much as the pants allowed. He braced himself as the lubed vegetable on the plug was inserted into him and fastened with the straps that connected with the chastity. Filip then pulled his panties and pants up, buttoning them and pointed towards the stool with rough pad, course and hard as hell against skin and not funny with ginger up the ass either.   
  
“Sit down, please.”  
  
It already stung and it was difficult not to squirm. Filip handed over a notepad and a pen.   
  
“I, Ronea Telford-Tully…”  
  
God, he _hated_ lines. It was with utmost dismay that Ronea started writing, biting his teeth from the sting that started to increase.   
_  
_ “… know better than assuming tha’ my husband thinks I’m stupid, because I’m not. I also know fully well how disrespectful it is to curse at him and to accuse him o’ thinking badly of me. An’ I know tha’ if I crave discipline, there are a lot better ways to ask for it, than to blatantly breaking rules I set together with my husband and promised to obey.”  
  
A very elaborated way to tell him he’d been a fucking brat and Ronea wrote it down and then started on a new line. This was a very lonely part of the punishment, to sit in silence and write, not hearing anything from Filip but his mere presence and the displeasure that laid heavy in the room.  
  
Ronea felt his face burn from the shame because he’d been a very bad husband now and not in a good way at all. He wasn’t in charge, Filip was. He was the head of the household and right now in charge of a lot of stressful things which made this transgression worse because it was insulting and hurtful of Ronea to dismiss Filip’s good intentions like this. He would write these line, keep the ginger in place and taste the rod because that’s what he’d earned by this.  
  
“Tha’s good, Ronea. Put the pencil down an’ bring me the rod, please.”  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
He obeyed and fetched the deceitfully soft rod that dripped from water. He kneeled in front of his husband, lowered his head and handed him the rod.  
  
“Thank ye, husband. Now bring the stool from the laundry, please.”  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
He hissed a little now because the ginger was big and very firmly in place, the instinctive clenching and releasing not helping one bit and he place the stool in the middle of the room and kneeled. Filip sat down, putting the rod to the side.  
  
“Do I need to explain why I’m giving ye this spanking, Ronea?”  
“No, sir.”  
“Then tell me why?”  
“Because I was extremely rude and broke two major rules, sir. I cursed at you and I accused you of calling me stupid… Or, thinking that I was, which I had no reason at all to believe, sir.”  
“An’ why are those two major rules, husband?”  
“Because it’s rude and unloving to curse at your spouse, no matter if he’s a dom or a sub and because it’s even worse to accuse him of something you both clearly know he’s not guilty of.”  
  
He looked up, feeling absolutely disgusted with himself and swallowed.  
  
“May I add something, sir?”  
“Go on, husband.”  
“I’m fully aware of what I did and I’m not gonna defend my actions because I had no reason at all to act like that. I regret what I did and I willingly submit myself to the correction I deserve and need from you, sir.”  
“Thank ye, husband. I’m glad ye’re seeing the error in yer ways an’ tha’ ye’re clear about why I will spank ye now. Pull yer pants down, please.”  
  
As he laid down over Filip’s lap, Ronea felt all but crushed with guilt and self-contempt. He’d forgotten his place as a submissive husband and now he had to made amends. Filip pulled his pants and panties all the way to his knees, adjusted Ronea’s hips to not cause friction onto his cock and balls.   
  
“Are ye steady, Ronea?”  
“Yes, sir.”  
“Good. I love ye.”  
“I love you too, Filip.”  
  
Sir didn’t feel suitable in that response and Ronea wasn’t told off for it. He felt Filip take the rod, gently holding an arm over his back and then the first blow came down, causing him to clench his buttocks and the ginger really began to work it’s awful magic.  
  
The shame was so vivid it almost had a life of it’s own. There he laid, a 45 years old man, bare assed up across his husband’s lap, accepting to be punished in this humiliating way because he’d been rude to him, something normal couples didn’t do.  
  
It wasn’t normal, it was shameful to need this, not being able to let it go without being chastised like this. To crave this pain, this humiliation and submission. Ronea cried already, not from the pain but from the reminder of how badly he craved this and still hadn’t learned how to ask for it but felt the need to give Filip another reason, as if the need itself wasn’t good enough. As if hurting Filip was a better way to achieve this.  
  
“Are ye okay, lovey?”  
  
He must be crying more than he’d realised. Usually, Filip didn’t pause this early into a punishment spanking and he rubbed a hand gently over Ronea’s buttocks.  
  
“Talk to me, Ronea. Ye’re shaking.”  
“I’m… I’m okay, Filip. Just…”  
  
An indignified snotty sob left him and he took a deep breath.  
  
“I feel like… fucking _garbage_ for treating you like that.”  
“Even if ye _feel_ like garbage, ye certainly _aren’t_ , lovey. Ye know tha’, righ’?”  
“Y-yes, sir.”  
“Ye can use Filip now, dear. Push yer bottom up, please. Ye need a pillow?”  
“Yes, please.”  
  
There was absolutely no dignity left in him. Ronea cried into the pillow, popping his hips higher to show he was eager to submit to the rod and Filip wasn’t lenient at all in the strikes. They hurt just as much as expected, as did the ginger. There was a pause and Filip stroked his back.  
  
“Ye’re not garbage, Ronea. Ye’re the apple o’ my eye, my pride an’ joy, an’ I’d be lost without ye.”  
“I… I can’t, I’m… P-please, continue, I can’t talk…”  
“Last dozen then, lovey.”  
  
It wasn’t one of the longer spankings, but it sure felt and Ronea was a complete mess when Filip put the rod away and removed the ginger, putting lotion on immediately before arranging them for the cuddle.   
  
It felt better already and Ronea couldn’t stop crying. He sobbed in his husband’s arms, babbling on.  
  
“I have no idea why I’m like this, Filip. Not trying to defend myself, I swear, but I just…”  
“Lovey, I know. Sweet darlin’, _I know._ ”  
“Please, don’t be mad at me…”  
“I’m not, baby. Though t’is seems like ye’re mad at yerself.”  
“Of course I am! I could’ve just asked you, but no, I had to… go full brat and it’s fucking with my mind, Filip.”  
“Well, I may have an idea why…”  
  
Filip smiled a little at him now, tucking a strand of hair behind Ronea’s ear. His ass was on fire in the best of ways and he stopped rambling, only crying softly as his husband petted his hair and cheek, not serious again.  
  
“Juice’s nightmares an’ flashbacks, they’re putting a lot of stress onto ye, Ronea. Doesn’t matter tha’ yer pasts aren’t the same, because ye still share some kind o’ core o’ the same pain.”  
  
His husband sighed.   
  
“I’m not saying this to put any guilt or pressure on ye, darlin’. T’is merely an’ observation an’ I could be wrong. I’m not a mind reader an’ even if I was, I wouldnae wannae intrude in yer head uninvited. But I think, maybe, we were wrong in thinking this is as far as we can come.”  
  
Ronea was utterly confused now, frowning.  
  
“I’m completely lost here, Filip. What do you mean?”  
“Tha’ maybe, there’s more o’ Aaron left inside yer mind, than it has to be… an’ tha’ perhaps one o’ the reasons ye’re getting so stressed about the lad, is due to those memories. Wha’ if… there’s a chance tha’ this, ye bratting off like this, is yer mind trying to tell ye tha’ t’is possible to… take another step?”


	81. Juice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys are back! I've been too busy with boring adult stuff lately, but here's our sweet Juicyboy and his daddies again <3

He couldn’t pinpoint what it was he was feeling, only that it seemed new. Nothing huge, no new colours or frames, just a slight adjustment, maybe some change in the light. It wasn’t much but he could feel it and for once the discovery of a new feeling without being able to name it, didn’t stress him.  
  
This morning, he’d woken up without remembering the nightmare, only recalling that he’d had one. It was early, must be, since Papi was still sound asleep and Juice found that he felt rather rested and not quite as sluggish as the nightmares and sleeping meds tended to make him.  
  
“Ye awake, lil’ one?”  
  
Daddy’s voice was low, not to disturb Papi and Juice turned around. Daddy looked tired but he wasn’t a morning person and rarely properly awake until Papi had served him coffee. Juice cuddled into his chest.  
  
“Yes, Daddy.”  
“Got any good sleep, laddie?”  
“Think so, Daddy. Feel better.”  
“I’m glad, Juicyboy. Ye wannae talk about it later?”  
“Sure, Daddy.”  
  
It came automatically and then both him and Daddy just kinda stopped for a second, as if digesting the sudden and so untypical easiness in the response. Daddy then stroked his cheek.  
  
“How about I change ye an’ then we hit downstairs an’ make some tea?”  
“You always have coffee in the morning though, Daddy.”  
“Aye, but not until yer Papi has time to make it.”  
  
Daddy smiled.  
  
“Ye know tha’ he once gave me caffein free coffee for a week as a punishment for making coffee.”  
  
Juice giggled.  
  
“No, but it seems very Papi-ish, Daddy. Can I have some tea too?”  
“Mint tea, or some other herbal or green stuff. Not messing with yer diet plan, laddie.”  
“Sounds reasonable, Daddy.”  
“Lets get ye changed then, lovey.”  
  
Daddy mumbled something to Papi that Juice couldn’t hear and the man just grunted something sleepish and turned into his pillow. Papi must be quite tired today if Daddy didn’t even have to explain himself. Juice followed him to the bathroom, a bit weak in his legs but he managed without being carried or even supported as long as he walked slowly.  
  
His diaper was a bit messy though, it always seemed like his tummy let go of itself more than usual after a huge panic attack or flashback or whatever. Perhaps it was a good thing. It hurt less, the soreness in general had decreased a lot and laying down on the changing mat was easier as well. He lifted his hips and Daddy removed the diaper, rolled it up and started to wash him.  
  
“Ye’re sore, kiddo?”  
“No, Daddy. Think… think I gotta pee though.”  
“Can I finish washing first?”  
“Uh-huh. S’not like in a second.”  
“Good. Ye wannae do it in a nappy or can ye sit on the potty today?”  
“Potty, Daddy.”  
  
It was strange in a way, how he no longer thought about these things, the diapers, the fact that he couldn’t quite control his bladder or bowels yet and that he still got helped with hygiene, as something humiliating, either in the good or bad way, or as a sign of weakness he should be ashamed of. Just something he needed help with, for now.  
  
Daddy finished the washing and then helped him up to the potty. It felt good to feel his bladder in time again. It happened more often now and it no longer hurt. Juice held a hand on his tummy and Daddy looked at him.  
  
“How’s yer bladder, laddie?”  
“Tense, Daddy. S’not hurting, really, just… it’s like still hard to relax when I’m not…”  
  
He blushed and looked down.  
  
“When ye’re not using the nappy?”  
“Yeah…”  
“Tha’s perfectly normal, Juice.”  
  
Daddy stroked his cheek.  
  
“Ye’ve been so tense for such a long time, especially in yer tummy, so ye gotta be patient with yerself. S’like learning to use muscles after an injury again.”  
“S’not the muscles that’s the problem, Daddy. I’m just so tense.”  
“Ye know why tha’ is?”  
  
Juice shrugged, not really noticing how the pressure released and he could pee.  
  
“Maybe it’s the laxative candy stuff.”  
“Laxative candy?”  
  
Daddy looked confused and Juice realised he hadn’t told him. He pressed his lips together.  
  
“Was two when I got out of diapers.”  
“That’s young, lovey.”  
“Yeah… had a foster mom who used sugarfree candy and sweet, diuretic beverages so I would learn to feel in time. That candy was laxative if you had too much of it.”  
  
He laughed, although it wasn’t a happy memory at all.  
  
“I had to sit on the potty until I did something. Could take up to two hours sometimes, I just kept crying all the time.”  
“Mary, Mother o’ Christ…”  
  
Daddy now looked absolutely horrified and Juice sighed.  
  
“She could’ve used prunes like a normal person, but I guess she never found the fruit and vegetable isle.”  
“Thought I’d heard it all…”  
  
Daddy shook his head in that disbelief Juice couldn’t help but love so much. The fact that Daddy couldn’t even imagine some of the things that had been Juice’s normal for years, that he got shocked and horrified about it, no longer made Juice feel guilty or ashamed. He could see now, that it wasn’t _him_ that Daddy got angry with.  
  
It felt good to know the difference and Daddy sighed.  
  
“I think we both need something to sip on before we continue this talk, darlin’. Lets get ye dressed.”


	82. Filip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Wha’s going on, laddie?”  
> “You… you gonna lock the pantry, Daddy?”  
> “Why would… Oh.”

He’d went back to his husband for a moment, telling him to sleep in while he had a chat with Juice. It was an order and one Ronea would have no trouble obeying, even if it meant Filip would be in the kitchen. Cooking breakfast, of course, was out of the question, but tea and some of Ronea’s homemade breakfast biscuits was allowed.  
  
Now, Juice was rolling on the mat while Filip brewed tea and brought the right cookie tin from the pantry. Juice looked at him, a slightly worried glance and Filip looked up.  
  
“Wha’s going on, laddie?”  
“You… you gonna lock the pantry, Daddy?”  
“Why would… Oh.”  
  
Right. The binge eating. It had been quite a while since the last time, Filip had almost forgotten about what a horrible temptation Ronea’s shelves could be for his anxious boy. He took six of the whole-wheat, sugarfree biscuits from the tin and then put it back in the pantry, locking it. He smiled at his boy.  
  
“Good lad for reminding me, Juice. Tha’ was very responsibly of ye.”  
  
Juice shrugged and kept turning on the mat, obviously uncomfortable with the praise. It was well-deserved though. He’d learned to reckognize one of the patterns to his anxiety and was starting to see the traps in advance, which was a big step, just as much as opening up about hard memories. And even if he couldn’t take the praise, Filip wanted to put it there for him to see.  
  
He finished the cups and brought them to the table.   
  
“Wannae sit in my lap, lovey?”  
“Please, Daddy.”  
  
Juice practically curled up like a ball in his arms and Filip stroked his back. It was very tense but seemed to ease up a little almost immediately when someone touched it. No, not _someone_ , Filip corrected himself. The amount of trust this required was extraordinary, especially considering his boy’s background.  
  
Filip kept petting him for a little while, until he seemed more relaxed and the spine wasn’t so prominently arched out. Still too pointy, but not wound up like a spring ready to snap.   
  
“Daddy?”  
“Aye, lil’ one?”  
“You’re angry, right, Daddy?”  
“Not with ye, sweetheart.”  
“But with… with the c-candy stuff?”  
  
The stuttering demanded more pets, light kisses and just the kind of hug that kept Juice’s body solid in Filip’s arms.   
  
“Shh, s’alrigh’, lil’ one. Ye’re _safe_ , Juicyboy. No one’s ever gonnae use food to control or punish ye again.”  
  
There was a little huff that boardered on a sob.  
  
“C-can’t promise for _me_ though, Daddy.”  
“Ye felt the need to binge when I opened the pantry, lovey?”  
  
A nod and then Juice buried his face onto Filip’s neck, just sighing.  
  
“I’m just… Daddy, I just wished _something_ worked like… normal. I used to do normal stuff all the time, Daddy. Wasn’t always… such a _mess_.”  
  
It laid so much weariness, so much buried longing and heavy weight behind those words. Not hidden, just so rarely spoken. Filip couldn’t be sure, of course, but it seemed as if Juice had never said anything like this to anyone before they embarked on this journey. He’d not had the words for what he longed for, being far too busy with and exhausted from the mere struggle of staying on his feet and moving forward.  
  
“Papi’s hurting too, right Daddy? From this.”  
“How do ye mean, Juicy?”  
“Well… It’s a lot of work, and then… then he remembers stuff…”  
“Aye, the PTSD isn’t fun for either o’ ye. But lovey, ye’re not in any way responsible for wha’ Papi goes through with his past, alrigh’?”  
“But, Daddy, he… It makes him sad and he gets reminded…”  
  
Filip took Juice’s face between his hands and looked steadily at him.  
  
“Juicy, listen to me. Papi has gotten flashbacks an’ anxiety attacks an’ hurt himself by anything from seeing a white cat on the street to finding certain beer brands on a party or hearing steps from certain shoes. There are brands o’ canned tomatos an’ butter he simply cannae buy jus’ because Aaron did.”  
  
He sighed.  
  
“Not sure if ye truly understand how much o’ yer Papi’s PTSD tha’s simply jus’ out o’ anyone’s control. He loves being a homemaker, sure, but there’s a lot more to it than his own choices an’ wishes.”  
“Because he’s still scared, right, Daddy?”  
“Aye. I wish t’was all his choice, lovey, but it’s not. He’s gone through therapy, tried lots o’ different meds, read self-help books, even attended support groups at one point, but it seems as if there’s jus’ a limit where the exhaustion o’ it is too much.”  
  
Juice nodded, probably understanding better than most would and Filip scratched his own hair.  
  
“There’s a point in everyone’s life, when the reward simply is far too small for the effort, laddie. I know we’re all supposed to be outgoing, social, career ladder climbing studs but where’s the freedom in forcing ye to be someone ye aren’t, to do something ye don’ wannae for a reward tha’ doesn’t even cover the costs, all to satisify this idea tha’ ye’re a failure if ye don’.”  
“Papi thinks he’s a failure?”  
“No, lovey. Not anymore. Becoming a male homemaker in the 90’s wasn’t the easiest decision, though. Took time before he agreed to give it a try but then, only in matter o’ weeks, t’was like flipping a switch an’ he jus’… became so much happier. Peaceful, one could almost say, an’ once he got used to feeling so much better, he started to see the value in it too.”  
  
He kissed Juice now, softly on the hair.  
  
“So, ye see, lovey, even though PTSD is messy shite, I know an’ Papi knows so well tha’ there’s no such thing as getting over it or pulling yerself together. Healing doesn’t work tha’ way, Juicyboy. Pretending t’is not there, is as bad as forcing laxative into a toddler to make’im hurry up with potty training. Don’ tell Papi I said this, but I feel like I wannae go find those bastards an’ kill’em by dragging them after my bike.”  
“Daddy!”  
  
The boy looked a little shocked at first, but then he suddenly started to giggle. A bright, unrestrained giggle that made the kitchen feel like it had been lit up. Filip swallowed and smiled, pulling his boy closer and prepped his sweet neck with kisses.  
  
“Oh, Juicyboy… Ye’re my sunshine, lovey. My absolute sunshine…”


	83. Ronea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ronea isn't in charge and he loves it.

He put the chastity back on and locked it with a little grimaze. It didn’t hurt, but he was hard and it had been difficult to obey the order not to jerk off in the shower – and the order alone made Ronea even more turned on, which was evil.   
  
Being disobedient or rude, as he’d been last night, was something Ronea wanted to avoid, not primarly to get out of punishment, but he simply hated to disappoint his husband. It made him feel like he’d lost a part of himself too and forgotten who they were, what their marriage was about and nothing made Ronea’s mind sink faster down dangerous paths, than the feeling of being unrestricted and out of control.  
  
He put lube on the plug, relaxed his pelvic muscles and slipped it inside, locking it with the usual straps to the chastity belt. The slight bulge would be pressed back with the panties and nifty little hip girdle that, had Ronea been another kind of man, would’ve been uncomfortable as hell, but he loved being ‘hard and hidden’ under layers of feminine underwear and all covered up with his everyday clothes, so that no one but he and his husband knew what was beneath the casual pants and shirt.  
  
The stockings were thin and without lace, just comfy and not for being shown and once the black pants, white tanktop and bluestriped shirt were on, it was impossible to tell there was a little world of naughty wonders underneath.  
  
Ronea sat down in front of his old dresser, biting his lip as his still very red skin got pressed to the little stool. He fucking loved this reminder, how it made his whole being aware of his submissiveness, of his need for rules and discipline. He’d been so out of control inside, he’d just locked up completely and now, the morning after, his body reacted like his amazing, thoughtful husband had known it would.   
  
Wanting to fuck, to be fucked, to get off, to just rub against something for friction was keeping Ronea’s mind alert now. His cock and balls ached for it, but it didn’t hurt in a bad way. Wanting but not being allowed, knowing he would be at some point, only not when or how, was a favourite of Ronea’s, reminding him very clearly of his place in this house and this marriage.  
  
He closed his eyes and grabbed the brush to start with his hair.   
  
He wasn’t in charge, Filip was.  
  
He wasn’t making the big decisions or taking the lead. He wasn’t suited for that kind of role, but for the one as the meek, trusting follower. His was the _yes, sir_ , the discrete head bow, the serving, the valeting, the _may I, can I, would that be okay, sir?  
  
_God, he wanted to be fucked this minute and was leaking too much. Blushing, Ronea opened one of the drawers and brought out his rarely used pantyliners. He was embarressed by them, but as he worked his pants and very straining panties open, he reminded himself that an inivisible pantyliner due to copious precum, wasn’t even in the same legue as poor Juice’s need of actual diapers. And leaking through his pants wasn’t an option.  
  
Filip would be pleased to know he’d taken precautions, just as he was pleased that Ronea hadn’t protested against the breakfast rearrangement. Now his wee husband was properly spanked, rested and showered, plugged, locked and covered and ready to obey and serve.  
  
Ronea finished putting a little make-up on and then went downstairs to the kitchen, where Juice was curled up in Filip’s lap, sucking on his pacifier.  
  
“Mornin’, darlin’.”  
“Good morning to you too, husband. And to you, baby boy.”  
“Morning, Papi.”  
“Ye look stunning today, baby.”  
  
Typical Filip, knowing exactly how deliciously uncomfortable the state of Ronea’s pants was right now, to compliment him but Ronea didn’t feel like teasing at all today and just blushed.   
  
“Thank you, Filip.”  
“We had a couple o’ bickies an’ some tea, lovey. Tha’s alrigh’?”  
“Of course, baby. I’m making waffles for breakfast, how does that sound?”  
“Delicious, lovey.”  
“Juice _loves_ Papi’s waffles!”  
  
Ronea couldn’t help but laugh at that, the sweet boy he had, and he kissed the top of the fuzzy head.   
  
“I know you do, baby boy. I wouldn’t make them if you didn’t.”


	84. Juice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Daddy was never fake, of course not, but to believe in what that smile spoke of, was still so hard. Juice swallowed."

Papi had been spanked last night. Of course, he didn’t say anything and neither did Daddy, but it wasn’t needed. The way Papi moved around his kitchen, making the batter, putting the coffee on, heating the butter and the waffle iron spoke plenty for someone who knew how to listen. The ass was just a little tighter in the pants, meaning he was wearing one of his girdles and fancy panties, and the lazy indoor sandals he mostly used in the mornings, showed silk stockings.  
  
Papi was pretty and everytime he glanced at Daddy, he blushed. Juice loved seeing it, this little sliver into the privacy between his Daddies where he wasn’t really allowed. Words weren’t necessary at all to tell how Papi must’ve been so tense and probably angry too, whatever the reason, when he laid down across Daddy’s lap and got spanked, not playful, but hard until the knot released and he could cry in Daddy’s arms.  
  
He was most likely in chastity, maybe plugged too, and horny as hell without being able to do anything about it. Juice realised he missed that feeling himself but then he remembered why he didn’t have it and he hugged Mr. Bunny tight to his chest. Daddy nuzzled his neck.  
  
“Wha’s going on in yer wee head, lil’ one?”   
  
He wasn’t sure. The nightmare came back now, not as a dream, but the memory of it. The cold, the pain, the loneliness. So many years of it, it had become his normal and here he sat now, cuddling in Daddy’s lap in this warm, cosy kitchen where Papi made waffles for all of them, not just Daddy and himself.   
  
He felt Daddy hold him even closer, placing kisses onto his skin.  
  
“Lil’ darlin’, Daddy can hear ye thinking from half a world away. Not trying to pry, Juicy, but if t’is something bothering ye in any way, ye know Daddy wants to help, righ’? Nothing’s too big or too small to bring up, ye know.”  
“Kay, Daddy.”  
  
That was rude and he pulled his breath in a little too hard.  
  
“S-sorry, Daddy.”  
“For what, laddie?”  
“W-was rude, Daddy.”  
“For saying _kay_? Oh, darlin’, how I wish ye weren’t so afraid o’ being rude when ye’re jus’ a wee bit lost in thoughts.”  
  
Daddy turned his head to look at him with those serious, brown eyes. He stroked Juice’s hair and rubbed their nosetips together like one would do with a puppy, a kitten or a very small child. Like all of Daddy’s affections, it came so natural, like he didn’t have to think about it.   
  
“Look at my face, lovey. Look at Daddy, please?”  
  
Scars. A bit of a stubble, grey- and whiteness around the temples, bags under the eyes and small wrinkles on the temples and forehead.  
  
It was one of the two most beautiful faces Juice knew and now there was a smile, a real one, not the perpetual Glasgow lines. It had taken time, but now he could mostly tell when it was directed towards him. Daddy was never fake, of course not, but to _believe_ in what that smile spoke of, was still so hard. Juice swallowed.  
  
“C-can I ask a… question, Daddy?”  
“The more the better, kiddo.”  
“I…”  
  
God, why was it so difficult to find words? He took a deep breath, fighting the voice inside him that screamed about being rude, disgusting, pathetic, demanding and entitled. He tried to let the sizzling and bubbling sounds from the waffle iron and coffee maker, the bristly feeling of Daddy’s whiskers take over, drench the anxious knot in his chest, but it was difficult.  
  
He looked at the man he loved, as his top, his caregiver, his comforter and guide. His Daddy in ways that went so deep they’d taken hold and wouldn’t go away unless you could actually dig up feelings with the roots and fill the empty space without missing what had been there.  
  
He sighed once again forced himself to look Daddy in the eyes.  
  
“Does… uhm… Does it never… make you scared or worried that… I mean that I don’t really have _anyone_ but you?”


	85. Filip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some Daddy introspection again, in 1st pov <3

I guess I’m not much different than most men, or lads when I was young, although it might look like I am. The life I’m living isn’t a usual one, tha’s no secret, but I’m not some unearthly creature jus’ because I have this urge to protect the men I love to an unusual extent. Righ’ now, they’re both sitting with me by the table, eating breakfast an’ I’ve never really stopped wondering why this, the sight o’ them having a healthy meal, eating with a healthy appetite an’ calm eyes, is something I honestly think I’d die inside without.  
  
This urge I’ve had since my late teens, to be in control, to be the one ye grab hold o’ to feel safe an’ steady, made me feel ashamed for a long time, even after I married Ronea. It felt like I was using his pain to feel strong an’ good about myself. The kind o’ man who’d hide his own lack o’ strenght by taking power over someone ever more weak. Ye know the type, no matter the sex. He or she who’ll use other people’s struggles to feel in control and important, like some emotional parasite.  
  
Like Aaron. Like certain foster parents.  
  
Don’ we all wannae be in control? To some extent?  
  
My husband is eating slowly, as usual, and I catch the glance from him saying tha’ I’m forgetting about table manners so I quickly take my elbow down an’ close my mouth. I don’ wannae be in charge o’ everything, an’ I’m a bloody slob when left to my own devices. I’m jus’ such a sterotypical _man_ sometimes, ti’s ridiculous. Don’ know how many pants an’ shirts I managed to ruin before Ronea banned me from doing any laundry or how much shite takeaway food I stuffed my gob with since I couldna cook anything more than pasta to save my life.  
  
I’m shite at domestic work, really shite an’ tha’s not my way o’ trying to get out o’ it. Ronea was never shite at working outside, he jus’ couldna’ handle it thanks to the PTSD, but no matter how many times he showed me how to cook an’ do laundry or make a fucking household budget, I jus’ kept screwing up. I’m good with making decisions for people an’ engines, but ye let me close to money, food or laundry for too long, an’ ye’ll have a complete disaster on yer hands.  
  
An’ ye know, Juicyboy, without ye an’ yer Papi, I wouldna’ have anyone either.  
  
I’m not trying to compare us, I know there are several differences, but I need ye jus’ as much as ye need me, if not more.  
  
Ye see, t’is not always a good thing to be in control. To not need tha’ support from anyone else because in this time an’ age, tha’ makes ye broken. An’ I actually don’ disagree with tha’. Not completely. I know how it is to grow up in a family with to traditional gender roles an’ how it’s bad for everyone in the long run, even the men who’re in charge, because it leaves ye half as much o’ a person tha’ ye can be an’ how’s tha’ being in control o’ yer _life_?  
  
Most men I’ve seen who love to be in control, have little to no healthy control over themselves, so they take it out on others instead, unaware o’ how weak they really are. I wannae be in control because I feel completely lost an’ alone if I cannae protect the people I love. Tha’s why I miss spanking ye, my wee lad, because the trust ye’re showing in those moments, the way ye lay bare in so much more than the flesh, is ye telling me tha’ ye not only relying on my control, but craving it.  
  
Ronea has only spanked ye once but I know tha’ he felt a sliver o’ tha’ care I feel when disciplining ye. An’ I don’ give a shite about tha’ many people still insist tha’ spanking kids is a good thing or tha’ they themselves felt loved from it, since it’s so clearly an’ after construction by the mind o’ an’ adult who wannae protect both the child he once was an’ the parents he knows love him despite tha’ belt or hand or switch.  
  
Spanking a willing adult in sub space is care. Spanking a kid who’s in a literal dependency due to age, who cannae walk away or say no, isn’t care or even discipline, ti’s jus’ a big person using his or her leverage to gain control over someone they already have control o’ on a huge level. But a grown man or woman who’s spanking a child isn’t in control what so ever, quite the opposite an’ no, even if ye claim now tha’ ye weren’t scared or tha’ ye “knew ye earned it” or tha’ it “taught ye respect”, t’is still not true.  
  
I understand the denial, though. Christ, my da beat my arse plenty but I never would’ve admitted fear o’ him out loud an’ as I grew older, I silenced the inner voice too because if ye whined about it, everyone would call ye a pussy an’ tha’ was it. Every kid on the street, from the toddlers to the seventeen-year-olds who had real jobs an’ saved money to get a place o’ their own, got spanked. Belts, rods, spoons an’ of course the tawse. Got beaten plenty on my palms in school, not jus’ for being rude but for something as minor as misspelling or not sitting straight. Old days, aye, but not good.  
  
The only thing I’m grateful o’, when it comes to the tawse an’ belt, is tha’ I never developed a need for taking tha’ shite out on someone else. An’ I guess the blessing in disguise tha’ was the cutting o’ my face, was what lead me on a road o’ wanting to heal instead o’ proving I was unbreakable.  
  
Aye, it bothers me, lil’ one, tha’ ye’re so alone in the world, but not for the reason ye think o’. It bothers me because it’s so sad, so unfair an’ tha’ I cannae do shite to change the past. Ye’re scared o’ being a burden, an’ I’m scared tha’ I have too little to give ye far too late. Tha’ I wont be able to reach tha’ love an’ food starved lad, scared o’ the dark he’s been left alone in, licking the wounds given by hands tha’ should’ve brought him comfort.  
  
Being the kind o’ hands tha’ heal an’ protect, is wha’ I need, sweet darlin’. I wannae be the touch tha’ makes a tense back fall into it’s natural position again, elongating the spine an’ pulling those shoulders back. I wannae guide yer bowed neck up again, lift tha’ chin o’ yers an’ show scared, flickering eyes tha’ t’is safe to look up an’ see the world. Letting it see ye an’ be proud o’ wha’ ye’re showing. Because ye are a truly loving person.  
  
I don’ for a moment think tha’ staying home will be the cure to yer pain, sweet boy. Ye’re not Ronea, ye don’ belong among pots an’ pans, potted herbs an’ knittings. Neither can I imagine ye fulltime in a garage like me, although ye’re a skilled mechanic an’ the thought o’ ye being stuck in front o’ a computer the way ye have been for years, is jus’ disturbing. Ye need balance, my wee, troubled lad. To get an outlet for tha’ locked up energy tha’ causes yer head to spin, for the creativity an’ compassion, the need for structure an’ the rest ye jus’ cannae get on yer own.  
  
I guess yer question is if we’re actually knowing wha’ we’re getting ourselves in to, by having ye in our lives. If we’re not gonnae wake up some day an’ wish we dinnae have to put so much energy into keeping ye on yer feet.  
  
Aye, we will. Probably several times. T’is hard to care for someone who has no sense o’ self value an’ no real experience o’ healthy relationships or a good family life. Being tired, needing to take a break an’ catch yer breath, share a few tears and allow a moment away from it, is wha’ all caregivers need sometime an’ we’ll have those thoughts about the hopelessness, the weariness an’ feeling a pinch o’ wanting to give up, but tha’s not us preparing to abandon ye, tha’s jus’ releiving the pressure an’ admitting to ourselves tha’ we’re not superheros, but humans.  
  
But ye know wha’, Juicyboy. _Not_ having ye, would break my heart an’ I’m not sure even my husband could mend tha’ bit. Ye cannae replace one another, tha’s the point, my love, an’ t’is the memory o’ yer bright, wicked an’ crazy happy smile, those huge eyes jus’ swallowing me with absolute acceptance an’ a patience could only dream o’, tha’ makes me change yer nappies, hold ye through yer nightmares an’ stop myself from breaking down from the horrible stories from yer life, because if ye could turn out so amazing, so goddamn strong despite tha’ hell hole o’ a childhood, then wha’ treasures would be revealed an’ set free, if ye were to get used to being _loved_?


	86. Ronea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little couch cuddle before leaving for therapy. I've had some crazy busy days of late, so this update is long overdue. I also realise the pace is going slow storywise, but that's because I'm simply not very good at writing more exciting and "fast" stuff. I want to learn though, but currently, we'll have to be content with my usual "developement trough slow talk" thing :p 
> 
> Lots of love to y'all and comments are, of course, always appreciated! <3

They were going to the centre a little later, but for now, Ronea had a moment with his boy on the couch, just snuggling together under the blanket with a book. The idea was to read aloud, but Ronea hadn’t made a serious attempt to start yet, since Juice was behaving like a touch starved kitten at the moment, all but rubbing up against him. Not in a sexual way at all, the sweet boy just wanted closeness and Ronea was happy to give it, just nuzzling his hair as Juice curled into his chest.  
  
“My sweet boy…”  
  
There was a small sound from Juice, pleased and yet needy and Ronea simply put the book away, bringing his arms around the boy.  
  
“How about we just cuddle some, baby boy?”  
“Yeah… Yes, Papi.”  
  
It was a good thing that Juice seemingly had stopped wondering if he was allowed to cuddle and be held. Ronea and Filip were both very affectional people, bodily and wordwise, thankfully. And once their lover had started to relax some in this area, he’d shown that his need for this non-sexual closeness was huge.   
  
Come thinking of it, a lot of people lacked in this kind of physical touch, Ronea mused while slowly petting Juice’s shoulders. Men probably far more than women, generally speaking. Ronea’s mother had been very affectionate, his father was unfortunately a very typical _man_ who’d been taught that affection was a sign of weakness. Ronea must’ve been around four or so when Fred Tully decided he was too big to sit in his lap, which was laughable in more than one way since the old man had always complained about how his only was scrawny like a girl.  
  
Oh well, Ronea loved his father, who probably would get a seizure if he knew his gay son had extended his “sinful living” with polyamory and daddy kink. Only that one Ronea had quite a lot of understanding for. No sound parent ever wanted to know about their kids’ sex life and Ronea just living with two men would give poor dad all too much information as it was. Neither Fred nor Patrick Telford knew about Juice and that hadn’t been a difficult decision. Hell, the old men just barely accepted their sons being married, despite having been more than twenty years and some battles just weren’t worth fighting, especially not with Juice in the crossfire.  
  
Parental and sonly love wasn’t the issue here, it was about generations, culture, religion to some degree and a whole lot about gender. And boys learned that after a certain age, you get your physical touch from wrestling with your friends, doing group sports and a little later, fumbling and having sex with girls and slinging your arms around your best friend while you’re both piss drunk. Dogs were fine too, big ones, of course. Or a firm clap on the shoulder.  
  
How stifling.  
  
Meeting Filip had been like kicking a closed door to a secret storage open, with physical yet non-sexual touches suddenly pouring out and falling into opened, accepting arms. His Scottish husband had taught him that it was perfectly natural just to hold and being held by a man, without more expectations. That cuddles weren’t something portioned out as a reward after giving your boyfriend a good blowjob.  
  
Juice sucked on his pacifier on Ronea’s chest now and it felt good to know that the boy allowed himself to give in to what he needed, even if it was frowned upon by most people. Ronea bent down to plant a little kiss on the nosetip and Juice scrunched it adoringly.  
  
“Tickles, Papi.”  
“Sorry not sorry, baby boy. It’s just such a kissable little nose.”  
“S’not little, Papi. S’a real snout.”  
  
Ronea laughed at that.   
  
“I guess Daddy picked the best nose.”  
“He did, Papi. Daddy’s got a pretty nose. Y-yours is pretty t-too, though.”  
  
Ronea looked at his boy.  
  
“Sweetheart, what’s with the sudden stutters? You do know it’s perfectly okay to say that Daddy’s got the prettiest nose, right?”  
“B-but you’re not u-ugly, Papi.”  
“Oh, baby, it’s not a competition and I’m no fragile teen. And I still got the best hair color.”  
“You dye it, though.”  
“Yep. Still the best. No one said you couldn’t cheat with your looks, baby boy. And I love both my boy’s looks plenty, but you have the most _adorable_ nose.”  
  
Juice smiled now.  
  
“Don’ think Daddy wants an adorable nose, Papi.”  
“Oh no. He’s a big, strong biker with burning rubber and wornout leather, riding like the wind, you know.”  
“Now you’re making fun of him, Papi!”  
“Of course. I’ve made fun of his bike ever since we met.”  
  
The boy seemed to contemplate that for a moment and pressed his lips together, furrowing his brows.  
  
“I don’t think I’ll ever understand how yours and Daddy’s teasing works, Papi.”  
“Does it make it better that we don’t understand it either?”  
  
Ronea kissed Juice’s forehead and then took to just stroke his hair slowly.  
  
“That’s the thing about love, you see. When you’ve been together for some time, you start developing a kind of language with each other that just… well, I guess you could call it a sort of DNA chain for your relationship. It’s what makes it unique just to you and your partners and trying to sort it out and define it is probably not even possible.”   
  
The boy just hummed at that, resting in Ronea’s arms and starting to twine a strain of Ronea’s hair between his fingers.   
  
“It…”  
  
Juice swallowed and then sighed.  
  
“It just seems to be so… I donno, _natural_ to you and Daddy. I mean, the words and…”  
  
Ronea pulled him closer and kissed his cheek.  
  
“Baby boy, it took a long, _long_ time and plenty of misconceptions and heartache along the way. And I know that, in time, you’ll learn your own language too. Just be patient.”  
  
Two fingers slipped onto his left wrist.  
  
“Love is gentle, love is kind…”  
  
The boy’s voice was low and longing. The sound of a man _and_ a child who’d never had a name for the feeling of emptiness, the void that needed to be filled and how the longing itself scared them both to death. Ronea wanted to pull him hard into his arms and never let go, but instead he let his sweet lover pet his scarred wrist, hopefully making Juice realise that showing love and care was something that came about as natural as it could from himself too.   
  
Juice didn’t need to learn how to give love, only to receive it and a certain Yara would, if they were lucky, be a good teacher.


End file.
